


Rentboy

by Naoe



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 1980s, 1980s NYC, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Historical, American History, Angst with a Happy Ending, Body Horror, Cancer, DCBB 2015, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2015, Drug Use, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, HIV/AIDS, Historical Accuracy, Historical References, It all ends well I swear, M/M, Minor Character Death, New York City, Period-Typical Homophobia, Prostitute Dean, Prostitution, Queer History, THE BOYS DO NOT GET AIDS, anorexic Cas, gigolo Dean, sappiest ending ever, so very 80s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-22
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-27 13:32:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5050423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naoe/pseuds/Naoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><b>Part of DeanCas Big Bang 2015:</b> Dean Winchester has not had the easiest of lives, but he was at peace with his decisions. He had made choices to get Sam where he wanted to be and to support them both. But once he met an adorable, miserable man at a benefit, his life began to change and he began to <i>hope</i>.</p><p>Hope is dangerous for a love-struck rentboy.</p><p> </p><p>Set in 1980s New York City.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Self-Control -- Laura Branigan

**Author's Note:**

> I almost feel like this is a collaborative effort, so many people have given me help. Total love out to [ShippersList](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShippersList/pseuds/ShippersList) and Stkirsch for beta'ing and just helping me hammer this thing out. Seriously, they worked on it almost as much as I did! A giant round of applause to my friend Jimmy, a born New Yorker and who helped me out a lot with the landscape and time period. 
> 
> I want to thank my two artists: My banner was done by [littleboopoo/nella-fantasiaa](http://littleboopoo.tumblr.com) and the rest done by my lovely artist [sarcasticdocmartens](http://sarcasticdocmartens.tumblr.com/) so thank you for your help here!
> 
>  **ABOUT THE STORY**  
>  *Hustlers/rentboys are mostly male hookers who work the street. Gigolos are high-end rentboys who service more expensive clientele. Escorts do not necessarily have sex with their clients. I will mix these around a bit.
> 
> *Some of the 80s stuff in here is off my memory and so it may not be completely accurate because I was still really young when this hit.
> 
>  **Personal Note** : This was inspired by this [Tumblr post](http://feminesque.tumblr.com/post/112936697134/2011-madgastronomer-marxvx-my-night-manager-who). It reminded me of my experiences growing up. Thanks for putting that information out there again. I had somehow forgotten how bad it was and this made me remember and, more so, write.  
> NOTE: Main characters do NOT die. Also, SAPPIEST ENDING EVER. I swear. I was gonna just make it "happy-ish" and it was pushed to SAPPY. Because I was happy about what happened. Ha ha.
> 
>  **FINAL NOTE** okay so I got some smack back for the footnotes. The notes are NOT NECESSARY for your understanding the story. They are there to assist you if you want to know some background information on some of the ancient tech and political atmosphere since not everyone grew up in the 80s. I mean, if I talked about metal-bottomed rotary phones that are shared phone lines in the house (so anyone could just pick it up and you had to say, "I'm on the phone!!" This makes for awkward phone sex, let me tell you.) and you had to have extra long cords so you can hide somewhere for privacy because cordless phones weren't quite a thing yet, who under the age of 30 is gonna know wtf I'm talking about?
> 
> Any way, I hope that clears that up. I wasn't being "lazy" as it was put, nor thinking this was an essay. I did it because although most people who remember this time don't need a reminder, some folks do, and since the characters know, I didn't want to bog down the story... That's all. Thank you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes decisions...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ THE TAGS!!

 

# CH 1: [Self-Control](https://youtu.be/HInA9jKyoKE)– Laura Branigan

### 1985

The night was his world, bright city lights, lines of painted girls. At night, the city burst into activity, a termite mound of hustling, drugs, dancing, and so much worse. The smells from the Indian restaurant assaulted his nose, made his stomach growl with the aromas of rich curries and naan. They were preparing for the late night crowd of partiers, drunk and debauched, stinking of sex, sweat, booze, and cocaine, just like the girls marking their corners. More late night decadence. More overindulgence. More burrowing into denial than face the world head on.

At night, Dean typically sat in the shadow of a mini-mart, waiting. He perched on the cracked curb, the smoke from his cigarette curling around his head and into the light of the blue-green neon sign like a halo.

Somewhere, someone was listening to the radio too loudly for a late night, and that crappy Wham! song was on, George Michael talking about yo-yos and shit. He almost sighed in relief when the song changed, only to have Madonna caterwauling about being touched for the very first time.

Fuck pop music and its shitty cheerful beats anyway. 

It was a slow night for the girls and boredom was a serious issue for them. Without tricks, they were stuck standing on their corner, gossiping with each other. They were clustered on one street corner now, colorful and provocative birds more firmly caged by money than jail ever could. Dean had come earlier in the night and set up shop near the mini-mart, where he knew the late-night customers would come by for after hour smokes and snacks. He had had to beat off a couple of the hos to keep the spot, but he had the best chance of getting a john here. The curb he was sitting on was uncomfortable, but the area was made for pedestrian traffic and he just had to hope he was picking up _someone_ tonight or he and Sammy weren’t eating tomorrow. 

Briefly, he wondered how his Dad would have viewed him now, working a corner across from a bunch of skanky working girls. John had despised hustlers like Dean and he had purely hated homosexuality. Shaking his head a little, Dean forced the thoughts out of his head. No point going there anyway — he knew his dad’s mind well enough. He'd beaten it in like braille.

As he sucked in another lungful of Lucky Strike, Chastity wandered over from the group, the cracking of her gum louder than the heavy clack of her heels. Dean looked her over, appreciating the time she had taken to crimp all that hair and tie a giant hot pink bow that somehow stuck out over her fluffed and hair-sprayed hair like Mickey Mouse ears.  Her metallic blue stretch pants clung to her every curve, while her ‘Frankie Says Relax’ t-shirt— cut at the midriff and torn at the collar—revealed her thin stomach and slid off one bony shoulder. Electric-blue eyeshadow made the color in her pale blue eyes pop in the yellow streetlight. He watched as a baby-pink gum bubble slid out from between pink-purple lips. She let it pop and sucked it back in with a practiced tongue.

“How’s it going here, Stevie?”

Dean winced. “It’s Steve. Like Steve Taylor.”

He received a blank look and a small, one-shoulder shrug. Her eyes were slightly glazed, and he had to wonder what she was on this time? He hoped it wasn’t crack. That shit was killer, even if it was cheap.

He sighed and then took in another lungful of smoke. “Nothing. It’s as dead over here as your corner, Chas.”

She canted her head like she was trying to compute what he had said, and then said, “Oh. No faggots out cruising for your cute little ass.”

Dean glared at her and threw his cigarette onto the road, stomping on it viciously with his well-worn Converse. “Bitch, I know you take it up the ass ‘bout as often as I do, so if I were you, I’d shut my whorin’ little mouth.”

The maniacal grin she gave him was unnerving. He _definitely_ didn’t want to know what the fuck she was on.

“It was just a _joke_ , Stevie.”

She tilted her head the other way, her huge hoop earrings somehow not getting trapped between her jaw and shoulder.

“Can’t you take a joke? I mean, you’ve sucked how much dick? You must know a joke when you see one?”

Dean shook his head in disgust. “Chastity, fuck off, ‘kay? Take your drugged ass elsewhere.”

She grinned at him so hard, her nose crinkled, and she looked, for a moment, frighteningly like Jack Nicholson in ‘The Shining.’ 

She hobbled off, swaying her skinny ass to the corner where the other girls were giggling, and a couple of them waved at him. He flipped off Ruby, who was shaking her yellow-spandex, tiger-patterned ass at him, and licking one of her middle fingers in return.

“Fuckin’ bitches,” he griped, running a hand through his short hair.

From behind him, a smooth accented voice said, “Just ignore them, Pearl.” 

Dean grunted and turned to stare at Balthazar, standing in the unflattering backlight of the mini-mart sign. The older man was looking debonair, as usual. His white linen suit with the pink v-neck shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and wearing his white loafers without socks, he was the picture of fashionable.[i]

“They’re just jealous that you’re prettier than they are.”

Dean pressed his lips together, completely unimpressed with Balthazar’s statement. Balthazar liked to tease him because he had abandoned his corner last year and had quickly earned his way uptown with his accent, charming good looks, and his suave demeanor à la American Gigolo[ii].

“Balthazar, what are you up to on this side of town?” Dean stood up, feeling underdressed in his ratty jeans and tight white t-shirt, the typical uniform for hustlers out on the streets.

His thoughts about John lingered and he felt the familiar itch of his verbal jabs eat into this brain: _you_ _’re worthless anyway. You can_ _’t do anything right. You_ _’re going to drag Sam down with you. You_ _’re poison, Dean._

Ignoring the angry voice, he dusted off the seat of his pants and eyed Balthazar cautiously.

Balthazar grinned and sidled up to Dean, pushing his way into his personal space and wedging a knee between his bowed legs. He took a long sniff along Dean’s neck, making Dean shudder. Balthazar chuckled darkly. “So responsive, little Pearl.”

“I told you to stop fucking calling me that,” Dean snapped, trying to break away, only to be stopped by Balthazar’s hands around his waist. From across the way, the trio of prostitutes were whistling and catcalling at the show and Dean threw them a dirty look and another middle finger.

Balthazar chuckled into the junction of his throat and shoulder. “But you are a positive _prize_ , way too precious for these filthy streets.”

He leaned back and stared into the younger man’s eyes, tilting back Dean’s head so he could see how the streetlight picked out the fire in his eyes. “So beautiful, my little Pearl.” He stroked a hand down Dean’s back, leaving goosebumps in his wake, and leaned in just a breath away from Dean’s mouth.

“Why won’t you let me save you from these back alleys and those filthy, disease-ridden trollops you insist on interacting with?”

 _You’re going to drag everyone down with you, Dean,_ John went on in his head. _You dragged me down, and left me at the bottom of a bottle. Gonna drag Sam too?_

 He hated John’s voice in his head. Instead of responding to it, Dean glared into the light-blue eyes of the man in front him, trying to ignore the hands running over his body.

“Because you’re an asshole. And I don’t want to owe you a fucking thing.”

Balthazar hummed and stepped back a bit, his expression going clinical as he ran the over Dean’s form.

“Well, you still have some growing to do, it’s true.” Solemnly, he added, “Just so you know, Crowley is coming to this side. Word is he’s going to incorporate this area into his Kingdom whether anyone likes it or not.”

Dean narrowed his gaze at the handsome man, took in the deliberately mussed hair, the snide grin, the thin wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He wasn’t to be trusted. 

“Crowley can’t take shit,” Dean said slowly, uncertain.

Balthazar laughed, tipping Dean’s chin up almost affectionately. “You keep telling yourself that, Pearl.” He leaned in. “Come with me. That disease that’s killing gay men, I’ll teach you how to avoid it.”

Dean frowned.

Balthazar added, “I’ll show you how to dress, how to hustle on a new level, Pearl! With those lips, you’ll be the belle of the ball in no time!”

Across the way, the girls were strutting as a car slowly drove past them. A hand reached out of an open window and Ruby grinned triumphantly at the other girls as she shook her lemon-yellow ass towards the car. She slipped in and the girls just turned towards each other and waited for another car.

Balthazar patted his cheek to get his attention, and Dean looked back towards him. “Well, Pearl? Shall I make you shine more? Or should I leave you in the muck with the rest to be eaten?”

 _You can_ _’t even take care of Sam, can you?_ John’s voice nattered in his head. _Worthless. Just fucking worthless. I asked you to do one fucking thing, you little shit_ _…_

Dean shifted again, looking towards Chastity and Angie. Angie was pointing out a black sore on her thigh and the matching one on her cheek, while Chastity nodded and offered makeup. Balthazar breathed into his ear, “Going once… twice…”

Determined, Dean looked him in the eye and said, “I’ll do it.”

Balthazar grinned and stroked Dean’s chin. “That’s my precious Pearl. Come, let’s lift you out of this muck.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

###  1987

Within two years of his leaving the corner by the late night mini-mart, Dean was glad he had decided to move up in the world.

Granted, Balthazar was an unalloyed dick, but he had helped Dean when no one else would. He had invested in Dean’s future with fresh and expensive clothing. He had introduced him at parties, and helped him get tested for AIDS while testing was still _very_ expensive and _very_ exclusive. Dean hated that there were people out there dying because they couldn’t afford the tests, and somehow found himself often at those fundraising and charity events as a guest, and not just as a rentboy.

He had, somehow, gotten off lucky despite his time on the streets. He credited it to the fact he never went bareback, no matter what. He refused to bring diseases home to Sammy because Sammy was smart. Sammy would figure things out, that Dean had STDs, even if he thought his brother was just having random sex for fun and not as a hustler. But he had to be a role model, and role models don’t get the clap.

It helped that they hadn’t had the money for doctors, so Dean sealed all sex organs coming in his direction and refused to kiss people.

That was acceptable.

That was generally considered a ‘whore’ thing.

It was, after all, _business_ , not _pleasure_.

So it was under Balthazar’s tutelage that Dean stopped making the small money and started pulling in big money and big clients: selected dinners with the president of a corporation; a private ski resort getaway with an international actress; a night out with a renowned scientist. He had _known_ them all and received their love in the form of a fat paycheck. It was even better, because these were people who wanted to remain anonymous as well. As such, he was basically pimped out to an elite selection of people, and his job as a gigolo and escort remained a secret from the world in general but especially from Sam.

There was, however, one thing he still insisted on. Regardless of the testing he insisted on getting monthly, he used condoms rigorously. AIDS had already killed off Rock Hudson and Liberace, and it was widely called the ‘gay cancer,’ or even the 'gay plague.' There were thousands of people dying of it every day across the United States. People were afraid and lashing out against each other, refusing to touch others. And, really, if Dean didn’t want to bring home the clap, there was no way he was bringing home AIDS.

Of course, there had been nights from working a corner that Dean had had a hard time hiding it from Sam. Night when the johns had been rough, and he had come home with a torn-up ass, a beaten face, and bruised ribs to match his even more bruised ego. Those were the nights that it had been a toss-up to whether he had held onto his cash. And there was only one time he’d had to go to the hospital for a broken nose and arm, and a stab wound to his thigh, which had eaten all their savings. Dean had had to tell Sam he’d been in a bar fight, keeping to himself that he’d been beaten half to death for propositioning a guy and he and his buddies had taken offense.

Dean was grateful times like those no longer happened. The terrified look on Sam’s face that particular night had hurt him more than the compound fracture of his right arm. He had also somehow managed to keep his sexual preferences hidden from Sam. But the fact was that his face attracted men more often than women. Men were easier to manipulate and he propositioned them more often because they were easier to entice for money than women. They just... _sometimes_... didn't like it.

Sam didn’t need to know that Dean batted for both teams, though. He needed Sam to keep his mind on school and off Dean's weird love life.

Because, really, although he had lived in New York for most of his life—barring those four years in Kansas and the following seven on the road, but they didn’t feel like a ‘life’—he hadn’t always been sexually liberal even with himself.

John Winchester had made sure of that.

It had come to the point that Dean had just accepted that John hated him for leaving the lamp on that started the fire that killed Mary and almost killed Sam too. And then John tried to kill him for the following six years, in Dean’s opinion, drifting from place to place like an angry bee, never landing any one place for too long. He had been a furious man, burning with booze and self-loathing, who hated the world and Dean most of all.

 _Boys turned into men, not fairies._ Dean had had that literally beaten into his head and body.

He was just fortunate that John had left him and Sammy with Lieutenant Bobby Singer, his old Vietnam buddy. Then, all it had taken was one too many bottles of booze and too much confidence in his driving in snow and John was finally out of their lives forever. John had t-boned a parked snow plow and had been found frozen the next morning. The Medical Examiner had assured Dean and Bobby that John had already been dead when the cold had preserved him. Dean had been genuinely upset, but just so _relieved_ that no one suffered, not his Dad and especially not someone else’s family. That would have been hard to live with, just like the fact he might have loved his Dad but he sure as fuck hadn’t liked him.

John had not been the nicest of men.

So growing up in New York, under the eye of a distinguished officer and radical liberal, had allowed him room to spread his wings. Under John, he would have never have realized he liked boys as much as girls. He would have never been allowed to date guys in high school. If Bobby hadn’t taken a bullet to the spine and had to retire, he would have probably have had a happy adolescence.

But Bobby _had_ taken that bullet, and he had moved home to South Dakota where his late wife’s family took care of him. Bobby hadn’t wanted to burden Dean and Sam, and he couldn’t make it up the four floors to their rent-control apartment. Moreover, Dean had just turned eighteen, just old enough to make his own decisions and Sam had wanted to stay, to take the high-level classes that being in a gifted program allowed him indulge in.

So, Bobby had left, Dean and Sam had stayed behind.

Dean dropped out of high school because, no matter what he told Bobby, he _couldn’t_ support himself and Sam on the money he earned at a coffee shop.

He started working the streets.

Now, Dean hadn’t paid much attention to what happened at Stonewall[iii]. He hadn’t even been born yet, so what the fuck did he know? He just knew that the attitudes about homosexuality had loosened afterward, and gay men had embraced their ability and freedom to openly have sex. No more penalties for sodomy! No more jail time! The gay community had blossomed under that freedom, making it the era of peace, love, and random gay sex in Turkish baths.[iv]

That was all so 1969; it didn’t hold as much currency in 1983 when he had started hustling. There was still discrimination, but at least after Stonewall, being queer was bearable.

But things had changed again.  When Dean was still in school, his friend Gordon’s dad had mysteriously gotten sick, and Gordon had had to move away. Some of Dean’s older friends, ones who went to Fire Island for the weekends to party, suddenly also got sick and died.

They called it the ‘gay cancer.’

If things hadn’t already been difficult for gay men pre-Stonewall Riots, after 1981 it was a constant turmoil. Deaths started being reported, the men suffering from black patches of Kaposi's Sarcoma[v], a cancer that mostly affected old people. It appeared starkly on shrinking bodies that couldn’t fight off illness. And initially, the gay community refused to believe they were in trouble…until they started to die in droves and no one gave a shit. Not the hospitals. Not the doctors. Not the government. Not really. Not fast enough.

Sam, who was always looking for salvation, watched the news a lot. On their broken down TV, he occasionally watched TV Evangelists because that was all that was on. If Dean was bored enough, he’d sometimes sit with Sam and check out what the news said, but it was terrifying.

People thought God was punishing the fags for their sins. In general, they just recoiled in disgust or fear and refused to acknowledge people were dying.

It was no surprise then that in 1983, popular TV Evangelist Jerry Falwell proclaimed, “... as the judgment of God upon moral perversion in this society. When you look at AIDS, God's judgment because of the homosexual promiscuity in this land...” which did nothing to stop the hysteria or hate.

Dean scolded Sam for watching that shit, put him to bed, and ran off to work his street corner so they could eat the next couple of days.

But it wasn’t just on TV that things were bad. On the street, things were harder than usual. There were beatings of homosexuals. People wanted to isolate them and let them die of their own disease. Dean had stepped in a couple of times to stop guys from killing his fellow hustlers, grateful for John’s training for once.

It was bleak out there.

Until, of course, the heterosexual community started to catch it.

And then it was open game on who might have AIDS. No one had understood how it was transmitted, and now that they _knew_ it was blood, people didn’t know what that meant.

Dean understood. He might not have finished high school, but a lack of education didn’t mean stupid. When Sam was handed pamphlets at school about HIV and AIDS, he took the time to explain it. He made sure Sam was fully informed about what was out there.

He also made sure that Sam understood how lucky they were. By the time Sam was sixteen, he was helping Dean out at the local homeless center, helping people without even an Uncle Bobby to give them a hand. As a clever kid, Sam understood that Dean was working to get him into a good college, so he also worked hard to make good grades and get as many references as possible. He also did side jobs to try and take the burden off of Dean, but Dean rarely let him pay for anything. So Sam would use his money to pay for groceries with fruit and salad, good healthy cereals and none of that Lucky Charms stuff Dean favored. Dean grimaced but always ate the ‘rabbit food’ to make Sam happy. That was their lives.

Meanwhile, of course, Dean had started working the big time, the big charity events, and he did it as his alter ego ‘Steven Taylor Sage.’ The last name was thanks to Balthazar, who decided rock star shout outs were too déclassé for his outfit.

Steven Taylor Sage was smart and funny. He was well-read (thanks to CliffsNotes and lots of old movies) and had gone to fine universities in Europe, thanks to Balthazar dragging him all over the place. He spoke French and enjoyed fine wines (working in a French restaurant part-time helped).

He was charming. He was dashing. He was a lie.

Steven Taylor Sage was everything Dean wanted to be and didn’t have the self-esteem to be. He was a creature molded into a shape defined by Balthazar and the dozen of tutors he had been given over the last year. How to eat at fancy meals. How to choose a fine wine. How to dance at a fine party. How to play a few songs on the piano to entertain and impress. Often, he just went by Sage. That’s how people introduced him, and he simply accepted it.

He was a puppet dancing on strings made of gold and silver.

There was no more Dean on that stage; there was only the escort, the gigolo, Sage.

But, for all his dick-ish nature, Balthazar had been true to his word. He had invested in Dean being tortured by tailors and tutors, and now he was there to pimp him out. Although ‘pimp’ was a harsh word for it, most of the time. Dean didn’t have sex with strangers all the time; he legitimately just escorted them.

Bal preferred to be called ‘sexy advocate.’ Dean referred to him as his agent.

Regardless, despite the fact most of his engagements involved bored socialites who simply wanted to be seen with a good-looking man or just to have company, he did have the occasional need to have sex with someone. To prepare him for that, Balthazar had taught Dean the finer skills of pleasing men and women in bed, and always made sure the people Dean was being bought to have sex with were given a clean bill of medical health.

It didn't matter anyway: Dean did not bareback. Only a fool rode without protection, and, no matter how nice the pussy, he was not diving in without a scuba suit. There be sharks in that water, and he had no plans of dying yet.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Tonight. Tonight was a special favor to Balthazar, the fucker.

Dean had planned to spend the evening with Sammy, since his little brother was leaving for college the next month and he wanted to spend as much time with him as possible. Instead, his beeper[vi] had gone off. He groaned and went to check the number.

Sure enough, it was Balthazar.

He pressed his lips together and turned towards Sam. “I’m sorry, Sammy. I gotta take this.”

Although he had the tell-tale beginnings of a puppy pout, Sam nodded. He knew work was important to Dean.

Dean walked into the ‘office’ area where they kept the house phone and sat down at the tiny desk. It used to be Bobby’s room, but neither of them had the heart to sleep there. The two tiny bedrooms they kept worked out just fine.

The clunky white house phone was a throwaway from Balthazar’s office, since he was constantly buying new technology. It was a potential murder weapon, it was so heavy. He tucked the heavy receiver under his chin and quickly punched in the numbers, each little beep chiming in his ear.

Balthazar had, of course, been waiting by the phone. “Pearl, darling! How are you this evening?”

Dean rolled his eyes. “It’s my night off, Balthazar!”

There was a hum on the other end and then Balthazar quickly said, “I need a favor.”

“You need a favor?” Dean echoed. “You need a favor on my night off? That can’t wait until another night when I’m not hanging out with my soon-to-be-going-to-Stanford brother?”

Balthazar sighed regretfully into the phone. “Darling, if it were any other way, do you think I would call it a favor?”

Dean grit his teeth and huffed out a put-on sigh. “Break it to me.”

Far too brightly, Balthazar chirped, “This charming little starlet contacted me about that big benefit that Liz Taylor holds every year, since it seems her date for the night canceled on her.”

“Yeah?” Dean knew where this was going. He had been planning to go to the fundraiser, but then his own date for the night had contracted meningitis, and he hadn’t felt like going alone.

“She’s requesting a date for the night. Just arm candy, really. Nothing too harmful.”

Dean bent over the desk and knocked his head against the wood. “How long and how much?”

Balthazar chuckled. “So clinical, Pearl!”

Dean growled and he could _feel_ Balthazar pouting through the phone.

“Oh _fine_. Five thousand for the evening if you wear something snazzy and matches her jade-green gown.”

That was a _lot_ of money. Twice as much as usual. But… “And… how long?”

“You know how those dreary things do go on, darling. At least four hours.”

Dean knocked his head against the desk again. “My take?”

Balthazar hmph’d into the phone. “Honestly, such a brat.”

“Balthazar!”

“Fine! All five, since this is a favor. And you need to be at her house in the limousine by 7PM.”

Dean flicked his eyes up to the clock on the wall. “Are you fucking kidding me? It’s already 530!”

“Well, then, I suppose you should hurry! Tah tah!”

Dean glared at the receiver like it had mortally offended him and he wished he could blow Balthazar up from here.

“Fuck!” He hissed, slamming down the receiver and running a hand through his hair with his other hand.

Now… now he had to tell Sam their bonding time was off.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The problem with escorting starlets was attracting attention. Dean did not particularly like attention, not with so many years of avoiding the law under his belt. Sage adored it.

He had donned the black tuxedo suit with an emerald paisley on black vest and a matching tie over a white dress shirt that he kept for emergencies like these. He tried to keep his best stuff with Balthazar because his neighbors were not the most trustworthy. He straightened his tie in the chipped full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door and smiled at his reflection.

He looked more distinguished than his twenty-two years of age, he thought.

Sam, who had decided to read some nerdy tome he got at the library, looked up from the kitchen table as Dean made his way out. “Whoa! You look nice.”

Dean grinned at him. “You know how it is… ladies to wow. Parties to attend. Money to make.”

Sam scowled. At eighteen, he now knew his brother was escorting women on dates. He wasn’t sure if this included sex, but it didn’t matter. His brother was essentially prostituting himself so they could afford Sam’s future tuition.

“Dean, I…I mean, I made enough money over the summer to at least cover the tenement costs…”

Dean glared. “You keep that money, Sammy! You’re going to need it for books and clothes! Not only that, but what if you want to go on dates and stuff!” He softened his expression. “Look, I’ll take care of this. I’ve got money saved up from the last couple of years that should allow you to not have to worry too much about your personal spending.” He brushed non-existent lint off his shoulder. “Now I’m off to wine and dine folks.”

Dean winked at Sam, who, despite his concern, rolled his eyes affectionately. “Fine, Dean! Be careful out there!”

“Of course,” Dean chuckled, picking up his wallet and house keys and storing them away. “Because I’m awesome.”

* * *

[i] Balthazar is dressed like Sonny Crockett from Miami Vice. It was CHIC back in the day.

[ii] American Gigolo was a 1980 movie where Richard Gere is, literally, a gigolo who gets caught up in a murder.

[iii] Stonewall Riots: 1969 riots in NYC at over a raid at Stonewall Inn, Greenwich Village, where the gay community took on the police. Considered a turning point for the gay liberation movement in the US.

[iv] Gay men really did have a LOT of random, serial sex in Turkish baths, especially in San Francisco. Many were closed in the late 80s since they were linked to promiscuity in gay men and a site of AIDS proliferation.

[v] This is a generally benign cancer that afflicts old people. In AIDS, it gets aggressive because of the lowered immunity. It can cover a person’s body. It's the famous lesions from the movies "Philadelphia" and "Normal Heart."

[vi] Cellphones had JUST come out in 1987. They were the size of a brick, they weighed as much, they got NO signal, and they cost a small fortune. Everyone had beepers/pagers though. And at the time there were a ton of payphones.


	2. Is this Love -- Whitesnake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to the event and bumps into someone...

# Ch 2: [Is This Love](https://youtu.be/ujnH4yNqL8E)— Whitesnake

### 1987

As far as galas went, the Arts Against AIDS fundraiser[i] was as star-studded as the Academy Awards. Dean had been to Sotheby’s before, but rarely at such an event. His efforts were usually at small, local fundraisers, not huge national ones. He looked over at his sparkling new starlet and smiled winningly.

Anna Milton was refreshingly down to earth. Her hazel eyes sparkled with good humor, and she was really quite beautiful: white skin, flushed cheeks, deep red hair. All of it was showcased by a gorgeous green gown that flowed from her waist like a waterfall. It melted from a deep green that actually matched Dean’s tie and vest, and softened to near pastel as is approached the floor.

 

 

She had been holding onto Dean’s arm most of the night, introducing him as Sage, and as they made the rounds, he made sure to be a proper accessory and talk her up. “She’s quite charming, don’t you think? A fine addition to any cast, I’m sure.”

Having finished working the room for now, they secured their seats. Anna pressed his arm possessively, which he tolerated with a smile. He kissed her palm lightly, and said, “I’ll get us something to drink. I’ll be right back.”

He made his way to the drink table, looking longingly over at the bar. He had discussed a few things with Anna, and discovered she didn’t want to drink alcohol. If she was going to keep on her toes among the elite in her business, she needed to be sober and aware.

He was about to snag two cups of punch when he accidentally knocked shoulders with someone.

There was a low curse and he turned to apologize, only to be floored by the two brightest blue eyes he’d ever seen.

To be fair, Balthazar had blue eyes, but they were like winter ice. Poor, old Chastity had had blue eyes like dull aquamarines before AIDS had taken her and Angie.

But not even Elizabeth Taylor’s eyes, which were almost violet, were the cerulean of the eyes that peered into his with equal surprise.

Dean swooped his gaze over the man who was gaping at him: wiry frame, cleft chin, pink chapped lips that were currently parted with surprise, a head of unruly dark hair that looked like he had just had fingers tugging on it, and long, delicate hands. He was wearing the required tuxedo, but it seemed to be fitting poorly on his waist, like he had lost some weight and hadn’t bothered to get it refitted. He had a daisy in his pocket instead of a kerchief and Dean grinned easily and pointed.

“Nice flower there. Adds a bit of something something.” He held out his hand. “Steven Sage. Most people just call me Sage.”

The man snapped his mouth shut, and dazedly blinked and looked down at his hands. He had a flute of champagne in each hand and seemed uncertain what to do with them, since there was no room on the table because of the tightly fit cups of punch.

Dean laughed and took back his hand. “Maybe later, huh?”

The man colored, the flush of red rising interestingly out of his shirt collar. “My apologies. I’m afraid I’m rather… well, my brother calls me awkward. I fear that’s an understatement.” He quirked a small smile and said, “My name is James Castiel St. Clare, but I prefer Castiel.”

“Castiel, is it?” There was something charming, even intriguing about the man’s slight discomfort, a thread of attraction that seemed to make him thrum, holding his body tightly like he were a trapped kitten. His Adam’s apple bobbed in discomfort and the champagne glasses trembled faintly. His pupils had widened, and his nostrils had slightly flared as he tried to get more oxygen into his lungs. Aware of the quick throb of the man’s heartbeat under the thin skin of his throat, and wanting to tease him a little, Dean leaned in, watching those blue eyes get a bit wider as he pushed into his personal space and breathed next to his ear. “And what brings you to this fair event, _Castiel_?”

Castiel audibly swallowed; Dean only heard it over the dull roar of hundreds of people packed into a room and the orchestra because he was standing right next to the guy. He leaned back a tad to look into the man’s face, and, if possible, his face was redder than before. The pointy tip of his pink tongue slipped out from between those full lips and swiped at the contours. Dean’s eyes followed it, finding himself licking his own, and nearly chuckled when the blue-eyed man swayed backward just a bit. “My— I mean, my _family_ _’s_ company is involved in the development of a cheaper HIV test.”

Long, dark lashes fluttered against the rosy cheeks, before Castiel flicked his gaze up into Dean’s almost flirtatiously and Dean sucked in his breath. The man was beautiful, looking up at him through those dark fans. He paused, indecision flickering across his face, before resignation and a frail stubbornness settled into his features and he admitted, “And, also…my wife, Amelia, has AIDS. She got it through a blood transfusion for her leukemia.”

Dean leaned back into his own space, surprise and sorrow warring for top dog. “Gee, man, that’s terrible. I’m sorry to hear that.” He held his breath and wondered if he was allowed to ask if Castiel was okay, when a small snort of derisive laughter erupted from the slightly shorter man.

“Well, at least you didn’t scurry away the second you heard that.” Castiel laughed harder, the sound tinged with hysteria, while those blue eyes were alight with amusement and relief. “You don’t want to know how many people immediately freak out when they find out I live with someone with AIDS.” He pressed his lips together and looked away, somewhere far away from the fete, and added in a rush, “Actually, I haven’t had sex with Amelia for over three years. She’s been battling the cancer, and although I try to hold her, the progression has been tough on her.” He looked back to Dean and shrugged. “Add that I have been at the lab more and more often, trying somehow to help… and really, I… well, I haven’t had sex in more than three years. I took the test, just in case, and I’m clean.[ii]”

Dean was surprised. The rush of honesty from the man sounded almost like a plea as much as an admission. Now that he looked closer, he could see the tension around the man’s mouth and eyes. The dark shadows under his eyes showed signs of make up being applied. He looked exhausted, and Dean was vaguely startled by his own urge to smooth away the lines. While he watched, Castiel appeared to sag a bit, the fight in him seemingly sucked away by his abrupt confession, and suddenly ready to cry.

Dean wondered how many people even stuck around to hear his declaration of being AIDS-free before running away? How lonely was a man without someone to touch him? Dean wanted to cry at the thought of three years without sex. Even if his sexual adventures were 99% business, it was still sex.

Smiling slightly, Dean fished into his pocket and found his business cards. Of course, they just said, ‘Steven Taylor Sage’ with his pager number, but it was better than nothing. He tucked one into the inner pocket of Castiel’s jacket, enjoying the faintest gasp that touching the man’s chest with two fingers (Okay, _and_ the back of his hand) got him. “Page me, if you want someone to talk to.” He inched slightly into the man’s personal space again, puffing against his ear and making him shudder.

“I’ll come running.”

He backed up, not oblivious to Castiel’s widely-dilated pupils and how his tongue had again slipped out to swipe at those plush lips. Dean winked, turned to pick up the cups of punch, and walked away.

He may or may not have swayed just a bit more than usual as he did so.

Dean didn’t generally hand out his business cards to people for personal reasons during events, but Castiel didn’t know who he was. Or, more accurately, _what_ he was.

But there was something about the man — Castiel — that intrigued him. Possibly the sadness. Maybe the gorgeous blue eyes. He didn’t know, but he wanted to find out.

~*~*~*~*~*~

To his surprise, Castiel did actually call him, although it took him a while.

He was in-between assignments and basically hanging around Balthazar’s brownstone, watching ‘Aliens’ on Balthazar’s state-of-the-art 50”projection TV[1], when his pager went off. Dean blinked at the number, unsure of who it was, but since not many people had his number he figured he’d just call back.

Dean strolled back to where Balthazar had his extra phone line for when his office phone was busy. Since Bal was in the office arguing with one of his patrons, it was better he go use the spare in the party room.

The party room was decorated in too much glass and white leather for his own tastes, all minimalist furniture made for looks and not function. There was a colorful pile of giant pillows in the corner that could be wrangled into a sex bed, as Bal was enamored of orgies and less a fan of cleaning his carpets.

Which was why there was wood flooring and no rug.

Bal had also had small cubby holes built into the sofas’ wooden armrests, a convenient place to stash blow, lube, and condoms.

The extra phone was tucked into such a cubby hole, built into the partition next to one of the shorter, rectangular sofas that were impossible to lean back on without falling over, the low square backrests designed for torture and midgets, not 6-foot men. The tables were even made of glass that made it easier to divide coke into lines or to get every bit of pot into the bowl. It didn’t hurt water stains didn’t damage the top and just wiped away, along with other questionable fluids.

The room was basically used for parties and that was it.

Dean still disapproved of the disco ball, though. A man had his limits.

He sat down on the edge of the couch — already annoyed at how high his knees were compared to his ass — and slid back the panel to reveal the slim white phone. He picked up the receiver and dialed, waiting for the phone to ring.

It rang twice and then a low, raspy voice said, “Hello?”

Dean grinned. He recognized that voice. “Hey, this is, uh, Sage!”

A slight pause and then, “So I wasn’t dreaming.”

Dean laughed. “No, I’m not a dream.” He smiled despite himself. “And this is Castiel?”

There was an intake of breath and then, “I’m sorry. I’m just shocked. I was sure I had briefly lost my mind.” He coughed. “Um, hello Sage. This is Castiel St. Clare.”

Dean chuckled at the formality, and asked, “So what’s up? How can I help you?”

There was a long pause in which Dean was worried he had been disconnected. He tapped the handset and said, “Hello?”

No, there was an echo. It was working.

Another sharp inhalation of breath and then, “I’m so very sorry. I really didn’t think this through and I’m trying to navigate myself around it.” Castiel cleared his throat and said, “Um, I was hoping, perhaps, if you had time, if you would… uh… come spend the afternoon with me?” Pause. “Maybe?”

Dean felt the smile break out on his face without realizing it, delight bursting from his core. The man was adorable, just charming. He hadn’t met someone so seemingly innocent in a long time. Something about the times, not to mention his lifestyle, sucked the naivety out of everyone around him.

“Sure, Cas. I’m free til around seven tonight, if that’s okay?”

There was a small relieved exhalation of breath, like Cas had been holding it in. Charm point two: he thought Dean was worth anticipating. “Then can we meet at Central Park around one?”

Dean checked his watch. It was eleven thirty. “Sure. I can do that. Where?”

“How about Cleopatra’s Needle?”

Dean grimaced, because it was the end of June and it was hot outside, and it promised to be worse at one. Still… “Okay, sure. The Obelisk. Got it.”

There was yet another rough burst of held breath that made Dean smile again. “I… thank you, Sage. I will meet you there.”

“Will do! Bye!”

Dean hung up the phone and covered the niche. He smirked as he stood and stretched his shoulders out by pulling his arms over his head. Burning with anticipation, he murmured, “Now to find something to wear…”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean arrived at Cleopatra’s Needle ten minutes early, just to make sure he arrived on time. He was wearing the Black Sabbath t-shirt he had cut the collar and sleeves off of, and his most comfortable 501 jeans with the holes in the knees. His neon-blue framed sunglasses were his only concession to the neon fad. He hated that shit.

He leaned against the rail around the Obelisk, waiting for Cas, and watching people. There were a lot of people in the park, considering it was almost one in the afternoon on a Thursday. Some young children ran by, followed by a frazzled looking woman with a baby stroller, most likely their nanny. A couple of teenagers were partially hidden by a tree nearby, making googly eyes at each other and making out.

Dean was so focused on the young couple that he jumped when a gravelly voice said, “Hello, Sage.”

Dean whirled and found Castiel smiling at him. He was wearing jeans and a bright blue polo shirt. It looked good on him. His hair was as wrecked as last time, but perhaps the thing that stood out the most were the bags under his eyes and how exhausted he looked. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Cas,” Dean muttered. Without thinking, he reached out a hand and brushed Cas’s hair out of his eyes. Under his fingertips, Cas’s skin felt too cool and dry. “You look like you haven’t slept since I last saw you.”

Cas smiled weakly and pressed a bit into the touch. “It’s been a long three weeks.”

“Has it only been that long,” Dean breathed out, pulling his hand back. Cas looked a little out of his depth, causing Dean to smile. “How about we take a walk? All these summer blooms are beautiful, aren’t they?”

Cas nodded, and they started along the path, not talking, and just enjoying the day. The weather was thankfully a bit mild, thanks to a light cloud cover, so Dean didn’t feel like he was dying. The sound of traffic and people was like white noise to their stroll, the occasional scent of a vendor tickling their noses.

They meandered along until the path split and Dean indicated the Great Lawn’s promenade with a hand. “Would you rather people watch?”

Canting his head slightly as he thought about it, Cas replied, “I would like to get to know you. That was my only plan, really.”

Dean, who was a notorious and manipulative flirt and a fulltime gigolo, blushed at the open and honest expression Cas was giving him. There was no underlying falsehood in his eyes; he was legitimately looking _at_ Dean, which was rare. Not even Balthazar, who knew who and what he was, looked at him like that.

“Um,” he coughed uncomfortably, rubbing a palm over the back of his neck, and looked off to the left where the path broke off. “We can either walk the Great Lawn, or we can head towards Belvedere Lake.” He wrinkled his nose when he thought about the lake. “But, man, it’s probably overgrown with algae right now, so I don’t know.”

A cool hand smoothed over his wrist briefly, and Dean looked over to find Cas smiling gently. “I don’t think it matters, but perhaps the Great Lawn?”

The bright blue eyes flickered down to where his fingertips were barely touching Dean’s wrist, as if he were going to take his pulse with those ridiculously chilly fingers. “I would just like to talk,” he murmured, looking up at Dean from under his lashes. “I…I haven’t been able to get out much, between work and home.”

Dean snapped his fingers when he remembered. “That’s right. Your wife, right?”

Sadness made the sumptuous lips tighten and curve down in the corners. A tiny scowl bloomed into existence between the dark brows, and the eyes that had looked into his a moment ago flicked away to the ground. “Yes, that’s… correct.” Cas shifted a step away, and grasped his elbow with his other hand. “Thanks for remembering that.”

Dean regretted the words after uttering them, if Cas was going to shy away from him. He licked his lips and shifted closer to Cas this time. “It wasn’t a very long conversation, y’know? Easy to remember all the details.”

Cas tentatively looked back up, his gaze darting over Dean’s face as if looking for something. He relaxed a touch, as if he had found what he was looking for, and chuckled. “But that’s exactly why I was surprised you remembered who I was.”

He rubbed his arm where he was still holding onto his elbow. “I mean, you obviously were part of the elite there.” He shook his head. “I mean, you’re beautiful, after all. And I’m…” Cas motioned at himself.

Dean didn’t understand. More tired? Thinner? “You’re what?”

Cas rolled his eyes and blew out an incredulous raspberry. “I mean, look at you!” He tried again, waving exaggeratedly at Dean with one hand.

Dean looked down at himself. His Black Sabbath shirt was clean. His jeans didn’t have too many holes and were also clean. His Converse Chucks were even a bit cleaner than usual. Sure, it wasn’t his usual outfit for jobs, but this wasn’t a job. He raised his head and eyed Cas. “Yeah? So?”

Cas stared at him like he was crazy. “Are you blind? You’re gorgeous!”

Dean just gave him an unimpressed look, not sure what he was supposed to do with the praise. He knew he was good-looking—he wasn’t blind—but he certainly wasn’t _gorgeous_. He wasn’t a chick, for fuck’s sake.

Cas stared a moment more, seeming to soak in Dean’s expression, and then laughed and shook his head. “Never mind. Let’s just walk, shall we?”

Dean shrugged, smirking at Cas. “Let’s.”

They walked in silence for a moment while the people around them went on their business. People eating late lunches. People sitting in the sun. People playing with dogs or reading on the lawn.

They must have walked for about ten feet when Dean broke the silence. “I don’t understand what you meant back there, Cas. You make it sound like you’re butt ugly or something?”

Cas snorted. He then chuckled darkly and kept his eyes on the walkway, away from Dean’s questioning gaze. “Or something,” he muttered. “I feel so lucky that Amelia asked me to marry her. I don’t know what I would have done otherwise.”

Dean laughed. “She asked you?”

Shyly, Cas nodded, a tiny smile on his lips, his eyes darting up to meet Dean’s for a moment. “She… she said that if she waited for me, we’d be in our fifties before we were wed.”

Dean hummed and looked thoughtful. “In that case, it’s a miracle that you invited me out? Is that what you’re saying?”

Cas colored, turning back to stare at the path. “Well…”

He wrung his hands lightly and stuttered, “M—my brother encouraged me. Told me that if I really had felt such an instant connection, I should give it a go.”

Surprised, Dean echoed, “’Instant connection?’”

Cas abruptly stopped walking, frowning slightly. Dean had to stop and look behind him. The man looked worn thin, the way his clothes fit once again speaking to his weight loss, but right now he mostly looked unsure.

The blush still tinged his cheeks as he asked, “Was I... I mean, was I wrong? I had this sudden need to get to know you better, as if I had known you before and this was sort of just re-acquaintance.” He shifted awkwardly. “I realize that it sounds like a pick-up line, but it felt like I had known you my whole life…even in that brief moment.”

Dean started to answer snidely, but he closed his mouth on that answer. Cerulean eyes were again watching him closely, impending hurt hovering near the surface. There were, if he looked for them, etchings of sorrow already on a face that couldn’t have been more than five or six years his senior. Dean reminded himself that the man had a dying wife at home and had reached out to a virtual stranger looking for connection.

This wasn’t the time for sarcasm.

Dean pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and stepped into Cas’s personal space, tipping the man’s chin up with his fingers. Cas was only a couple of inches shorter, so he didn’t have to tip it up too far to get those eyes looking into his own.

“I don’t know what this is,” he answered honestly. “But I’m willing to find out.”

Cas searched his eyes for something, and, seeming to find it, he nodded and released a pent up breath. “Thank you, Sage.”

Dean stifled his urge to recoil. This was the perfect time to come clean. The man Cas was meeting today was not the magical Sage, but plain old Dean. The real him, without the glam or glitz. Sure, there were some aspects that were similar, but Sage was a stage name. A mask to hide his services, not even a real man.

He wanted to come clean to Cas. The guy was standing there, looking at him with some sort of misguided trust, his gaze open and almost adoring. Fuck, they hadn’t known each other more than — honestly — 45 minutes and Dean wanted to crack open his façade and pour all his secrets out! He controlled his desire, slid his sunglasses back down, and smiled winningly. “You’re welcome, Cas.”

He couldn’t do it. He’d lived in fear of discovery for too long. Sam knew about the escorting people, at least, but not about the prostitution. He had to keep it quiet.

He reasoned that _he_ didn’t know Cas.

Cas was a businessman, someone high up in his company. He could be hiding his ruthless streak, and the open naivety could be a façade, like ‘Sage.’ He could be a plant to try and pry Dean open, even someone from the cops, sent to dig into Bal’s escort business. It turned his stomach and he swallowed hard, the sudden desire to run away from this beating hard in his chest.

He was about to make an excuse when Cas smiled and stepped up, all innocence and naïve trust.

Could this be faked? Could Cas lie with his heart in his eyes?

They continued walking along amiably, which was completely at odds with the chaos in Dean’s head. He ignored the internal debate of coming clean, the suspicions he was harboring, and asked, “So who were you at the fundraiser with?”

“My brother, Gabriel.” He smiled fondly, and added, “He’s the one who saw me interact with you for the moment and told me to chase after you.” Yet again, color flooded the man’s face, this time even tinging his ear tips. “I was rather, well, _dazed_ after meeting you, I suppose. I really couldn’t bring myself to break into your circle.” He waved a hand absently. “You were with that gorgeous redhead and were talking to all those stars.”

Dean laughed outright, a bellowing belly laugh that surprised them both. “I’m sorry. I was just the pinch-hitter escort that night. Her date had canceled at the last moment, and my friend asked me to help out.”

Round-eyed, Cas sputtered, “But you looked so at ease with them!” He kicked at a pebble. “Gabriel had forced me to come because it was a perfect place to make contact with people who would love to invest in a project like ours.” He shrugged and heaved a sigh. “Well, one of them, at least.”

Dean nodded. “I suppose it is. I’ve been to a few of those large events, and I always leave with a pocketful of numbers and business cards.”

“Any I need to get jealous over?”

Surprised, Dean looked over to find the man staring at him seriously. “Really? C’mon, Cas! We’ve just met!”

Cas grumbled and grabbed Dean’s hand. “I know that.” Frustrated, he squeezed his eyes shut and breathed out slowly. He opened his eyes gradually, letting his gaze flutter over Dean’s face.

In his chest, Dean felt his heart falter, and his own breath hitch at the seriousness in Cas’s expression, the confusion at his own reaction to Dean, but not in a bad way. Not like Dean was something dirty or dark.

“I _know_ that,” Cas repeated, his hand hot, his thumb rubbing absently on the mound of Dean’s hand. “But… like I said… there’s something about you… like I can’t shake you. Your eyes and smile haunted me for days. It’s been getting me thro—“

Dean waited, but Cas suddenly paled and pushed away. “— through the nights,” he whispered as if horrified by his admission.

“Cas?” This time Dean caught his arm, pushing his sunglasses back up so he could look at Cas better. And, _damn it_ , Cas looked like he was going to cry.

“I’m sorry. _I_ _’m sorry_. I… no, I _can_ _’t_!” Cas tried to pull away and Dean caught his other arm as well, holding him in place as he struggled weakly.

“Cas! C’mon, Cas! Calm down!” Dean shook him lightly, worried about the unexpected glassy look in Cas’s eyes, the white, sweaty gleam of his face. “ _Cas!_ _”_

There was a long pause between them, like they were in a bubble and the world tumbled along around them. Cas was brokenly shaking his head, denying whatever thoughts were doing a danse macabre in his mind, his breath shuddering in and out of him as he tried to breathe.

Dean held his trembling body in place, gripping his arm tightly and finally reaching out a hand to grasp Cas’s face and make him focus on him. “Cas, c’mon! Talk to me!”

_“She’s **dying**!” _

Like a dam had shattered in his head, Cas started to talk, looking like he was trying hard to center on Dean and failing as his eyes gazed out onto nothing tangible. “She’s _dying_!” A low sob stuttered out, and he sniffled, his eyes filling with unshed tears. He harshly whispered, “I mean, I _escaped_ from her today. Who does that? Who runs away from their dying wife to be with someone they’re attracted to?” Tears started to spill out, but Cas seemed oblivious to them. “B—but…I—I couldn’t do it anymore. She’s been wasting away, and she’s _so_ frail…all stretched skin and hollow bones. I can’t even _touch_ her anymore! She cries and shies away from me.” Blue eyes finally locked into his gaze and he whimpered, “Who abandons their dying wife for a man they met for ten minutes at an AIDS fundraiser?”

Dean gathered the shaking man into his arms and stroked his hand down Cas’s back, shushing him and telling him it was alright. Cas sobbed messily into his shoulder, sniffling, “I haven’t touched her in almost a year. She’s in so much pain all the time. Her bones are so brittle! And I can’t do much!”

Dean just let Cas cry it out, ignoring the stares they were getting. Fuck’em. Cas needed to let it out, and if it was to a stranger while walking in a public place, then fine. Whatever. There were like seven million people in New York. They’d get over it.

Cas’s tears were heavy for a good ten minutes, not surprisingly if he hadn’t released them in a long time. Dean kept whispering comfort into his hair and stroking his back. When the sobs slowed down into soft sniffles, Dean pushed him off just enough to look Cas in the face.

“You’re only human, Castiel. You’re not a saint. You can’t live for _years_ without anyone touching you intimately.” Glassy, red, wondering eyes met Dean’s and he shook Cas slightly by the upper arms. “You can’t blame yourself for something beyond your control. Blame the cancer! Blame the virus! Blame god, for fuck’s sake!” He gripped Cas’s arms hard enough to bruise, and he recognized that he had hurt Cas when he winced, but he didn’t care. “ _It_ _’s not your fault_.”

Cas just stared at him, the beautiful trust and naivety beaming out of him and into Dean. It was like looking into pure acceptance, something he had never seen from anyone by his brother. It filled cracks in his being that he pointedly ignored, that this man, this stranger, was giving him something he didn’t even know he needed.

Something in Cas made Dean feel human and alive, and less like a broken fucktoy.

And then it was Dean’s turn to moan in frustration, in sorrow, and he leaned in close until their foreheads touched, and he breathed out, “Because it’s as much my fault for wanting you too.”

In retrospect, Dean had not intended to do that. He had not intended to kiss Cas. The man was an emotional wreck and under a lot of stress. He did not need a highly-rated, pricey _rentboy_ kissing him in the middle of a public park. The man was proper. He had a proper home, a proper job, even a proper wife.

But it did not stop Dean from feeling that—in this moment—it was the perfect thing to do.

Although he never kissed clients, Cas was not a client and he needed someone to touch him intimately. Somewhere inside, although he would deny it hotly, Dean wanted to be the one to touch Cas, to lie in that innocent affection and soak it up. To have sky-blue eyes stare into him dark with desire and unalloyed trust. No money exchanged; they were just two people who lacked intimacy in their lives seeking each other out.

And, for a brief moment, with his lips pressed against Cas’s, he thought he had made a mistake. Cas was tense against him, his whole body screaming helplessness and sorrow. Then the lips under his softened and Cas was kissing him back. It was chaste, sweet. They didn’t go any further, or delve any deeper. It was meant to comfort, and, oddly, as much as he was comforting Castiel, Castiel was comforting Dean.

When they parted, it was to wolf whistles and shouts of “Get a room!” At least no one was screaming insults and slurs, Dean reckoned. He had been called lots of horrible things, but he didn’t want to expose Cas to that.

But perhaps the best part was how Cas was looking at him, eyes wide and surprised, his lips red and a touch swollen. He was looking at Dean like he was a marvel, and Dean felt embarrassment slide under his skin and heat his face.

“Uh, I’m sorry, Cas. I didn’t mean to do that.” He had to try and make amends. He had just stolen the man’s kiss in the middle of Central Park in broad daylight, after all.

Cas lightly tapped Dean with his fist, where it was trapped against Dean’s chest, and shook his head. “Don’t. Don’t apologize for that.” He managed a watery smile. “It’s the most intimate contact I’ve had in three years. Don’t you ruin it for me.”

Dean smiled back, and, suddenly conscious of people watching them, they broke apart and again started walking along the path.

Cas murmured, his voice more ragged than earlier, “I know of a tea shop near here, if you want to find shelter from prying eyes?”

Dean flipped his sunglasses back down and grinned. “Lead on, McDuff.”

Cas sighed. “You know that was originally, ‘Lay on, McDuff’? People misquote that all the time.”

Dean grinned at him and shrugged with one shoulder. “It got my point across. Good enough for me.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The tea shop that Cas had mentioned was not just an average tea shop, but it was the second big indication that Cas was moneyed and had connections.

Dean stopped in front of the tea shop and frowned, grabbing Cas as he tried to walk past him. “Dude, when you said ‘tea shop,’ I was expecting some hole in the wall. This…” He pointed at the red awning with the words ‘Russian Tea Room[2]’ stenciled across the sides in white. “This is not any old hole in the wall.”

Cas smiled and grabbed Dean’s wrist, brushing his thumb over the thin skin over his pulse. “I realize that, but they know me here, and I feel like spoiling you.” He jerked his chin towards the door. “We can have afternoon tea.”

It wasn’t like Dean _hadn_ _’t_ been to the Russian Tea Room. It was a famous New York spot and many of his customers enjoyed the solitude they could request. The problem was that Dean had never been to the Russian Tea Room as just _Dean_.

They made their way in, pushing through the revolving wooden door with the etched glass panels, and Dean nudged his sunglasses up on his head and stared impassively at the decor. As always, the decorations were so busy, so rich, so overwhelming. The deep red of the carpets and booth seats, a bunch of gold urn looking things, chandeliers with the bright red Christmas bulbs, Russian-looking paintings, and deep green walls, all of which made him feel underdressed and ill-prepared to sit in the middle of all the finery.  Even the ceiling was decorated with gold, while phoenixes spread their wings on the separators.

There were few people inside since it was nearing two o’clock, and those few people were watching them curiously as they waited to be noticed by the bar.

A man in a red Russian-looking peasant shirt and black pants approached them, and, sure enough, he recognized Cas, greeting him with a broad smile, warm hug, and a long spate of what Dean presumed was Russian. He had never seen or heard one of the staff do that, and the uneasiness grew. A little embarrassed, Cas returned the hug and responded in what must have been flawless Russian, because the man looked over at Dean, no recognition in his eyes (thankfully) and nodded. To Dean’s greater discomfort, the man patted him in a friendly manner on the arm and, in lightly-accented English, said, “Of course, a friend of Castiel’s is a friend of ours.”

Cas blushed lightly, and, in English, asked about the man’s family. The waiter (?) laughed and went off in a long and fast spate of Russian that had Cas nodding seriously, and finally breaking into a fond smile. Dean swallowed hard at how attractive it made his face. The soft crinkling around his eyes and nose, the way his lips stretched over white teeth, his Adam’s apple moving as he laughed faintly at whatever the man said to him.

Dean watched how _attentive_ Cas was, how he genuinely listened as the man rattled off in Russian about his family. He watched the slim hand reach out to the man’s sleeve and pat it comfortingly, and how the man grabbed back, covering Cas’s hand with his own, and grinned at him fondly. They both laughed for a moment, when Cas realized he was being rude and turned back to Dean. “Oh god, I’m so sorry, Sage!” He pulled Dean forward into the bubble of long acquaintance and said, “Dmitri is a longtime friend. I’ve been coming here for years, mostly to keep my Russian fluid.”

Dmitri laughed and slapped Cas on the shoulder. “Oh, he says that, but he comes to stuff his face with sandwiches.” Dmitri motioned them into the booth, and, as they slid into the bright red leather, said, “The usual?”

Cas agreed, and Dmitri mentioned he would pass Cas’s greeting to Faith, and Cas nodded with a grin. Dean sat back in the seat, looking around. Everyone else was wearing nice clothing, at least suits, and he and Cas were in serious casual wear. He leaned over and asked quietly, “Are you sure we can be in here?”

Blinking at him in surprise, he said, “Well, yes. I wouldn’t have suggested it if it weren’t okay.” He shrugged. “Faith[3] owes me a couple of favors, and getting to have tea with a proper samovar is a treat.” He leaned forward a tad and said, confidentially, “I could never get Amelia interested in Russian tea time. She thought it was odd.”

Dean glanced at him askance. “Weird? Are they going to start dancing around swords or something?”

Cas winked, startling Dean. “Sabers. They dance around sabers.” Those eyelashes fluttered down as Cas arranged his linen napkin. “And it has nothing to do with that, as charming as it is you think so.”

Dean fought the telling blush. He wasn’t used to be called charming. Well, _Dean_ wasn’t used to it. Sage was the epitome of charm and smooth. Dean was gauche as fuck.

There was a distant rattle as Dmitri brought out a rolling service table. There was one of the gold urn things on it, a pipe coming out the top emitting sweet, musky smoke. A fancy smaller pot and two tea cups with saucers, a set of small silver utensils, and three small silver bowls with sugar cubes, lemon, and what looked like blackberry preserves were presented.

The man transferred the items, aside from the urn-thing, and Cas hummed with anticipation. Dmitri looked at the dishes and snapped his fingers. “I’ve forgotten the cream. My apologies.”

He took off, leaving Dean and Cas with the tea. Cas smiled and said, “Would you like me to show you how to do this?”

Dean nodded, not sure why there was jam on the table. Sugar and lemon, he’d heard of. Jam… gross.

Taking a spoonful of the jam and carefully putting it in the bottom of the china teacup, Cas then poured in what looked like very strong tea from the teapot.

Dean frowned and said, “Isn’t that gross?”

Cas chuckled as he stirred the tea, finally filling the small cup mostly to the top with hot water from the urn-thing. “It’s delicious and hot.”

Dmitiri returned with a tiny pot of cream, a plate of what looked like scones, tiny pies, and a small selection of crustless sandwiches. He dropped the lot, and, with a small bow, took off again.

Smiling, Cas passed the tea to Dean. “Try that.”

“You put jam in it.” Dean stared at the cup.

He chuckled again. “I certainly did.”

Dean shifted his flat stare to Cas. “That’s gross.”

Rolling his eyes, Cas responded dryly, “Just try it. You might like it.”

Dean grumbled under his breath and sniffed the tea. It smelled vaguely smoky and sweet, with the scent of berries wafting amongst the scent of strong black tea. Carefully, he took a sip. It was exactly as it smelled. The tea wasn’t too strong, since Cas had added water, and the fruity flavor from the jam could, actually, have been a bit stronger. Surprised he asked for more jam, smiling when a delighted grin spread over Cas’s face.

As they leisurely ate and drank tea, they talked about themselves. Cas added more information about his wife, whom he had met in college and married while they were in undergrad. That he had degrees in Business and in Chemistry. He had been thinking about getting his doctorate when the AIDS situation had first been reported, and had personally investigated the state of affairs, not knowing that his own wife was going to fall to the disease.

Dean spoke about Sammy a bit, something he rarely did with anyone outside of Balthazar. Some part of him wanted to talk about his Father, John, but he couldn’t quite get the words past his lips, and he wasn’t sure if that was habit or if there was just nothing left in himself to express his feelings about John. John was dead. How much more was there to talk about?

Cas finally ended up talking about his company and his older brother, Gabriel. It turned out Gabriel was older than Cas by five years, and that he had had no interest in running a pharmaceutical company. That is how the second son had ended up in the CEO chair at the age of twenty-five, after Gabriel had literally thrown up his hands in the middle of a meeting, and shouted, “Fuck it!”

He had walked away, and never looked back.

“Now, he just works in middle management and is much happier,” Castiel admitted while Dean had guffawed. “He also opened a bakery with an ambitious woman named Kali. They’ve been on again off again for ages.” Cas shook his head. “His humor runs to practical jokes; she has a fiery temper. They’re a volatile pair, that’s for certain.”

“Sounds awesome,” Dean grinned while plucking the last tart (not tiny pie) off the plate. He eyed it before taking a bite and, after a moment, said, “These tarts are okay, but I’ve had better.”

Nodding, Cas sighed desolately. “The Tea House does not make the best pastries, it’s true.”

Dean quirked a smile, setting the offending pastry on his plate and looking into Cas’s smiling eyes. “Say, Cas… would you…” Losing his courage, he shifted his gaze downwards, feeling uncomfortable. “…nah. Never mind.”

A fine-fingered hand reached out and stopped Dean from picking at his tart. “Ask me, Sage. Ask me anything.”

Flicking his gaze back up and seeing that Cas was looking at him encouragingly, Dean swallowed hard. He wanted to sigh because Sage would have had no problem with asking, but _Dean_ was a nervous wreck as he inquired, “Would you… like to come to with me to a pie shop sometime? There’s an awesome one near my friend’s place. I’d love to show it to you.” He tapped a finger on the tart. “It’s much better than this.”

Cas smiled sweetly back, canting his head slightly, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes bursting into beautiful existence for Dean. “I would love to. I don’t know many places beyond Central Park, SoHo, and Tribeca.”

Dean’s eyebrows went up. “Tribeca?” Tribeca had started to develop a reputation for the bohemian elements in the 1970s, with artists and their buddies moving in and changing the landscape. It had become less industrial and more gentrified, the property prices shooting up.

Coloring a bit, Cas explained, “My wife, before her illness, had inherited some property there. She found she really liked the area, so when we graduated, we just moved into the space.”

Dean hummed. “And not because you have money, right?”

To Dean’s surprise, a hard look slid over Cas’s face, his eyes glittering for a moment with fury and he realized he had made a mistake. “Does it offend you that I’m rich, Sage? Or does it intrigue you?”

The fire in those blue eyes was gorgeous, and it was obvious that this was the hard Cas, the one that probably lived in the boardroom. His lips were pale from being pressed together tightly, the righteous anger lending a flare to the fine lines of his nose.

Dean snorted at the irony for a moment, that a man like Cas would deign to hang out with a hustler, the amusement doubling him over for a second, and said, “You can relax, Cas. I know a lot of rich people. _Very_ rich people. I’m not after your cash.”

He beamed at Cas, amusement still curled inside him. “I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to make it sound so rude. I’m not filthy rich, or really wealthy even. I’m just an average guy.”

 _This is it_ , he told himself. _This is a moment to tell him what you are, before you get invested in something and he leaves you. Tell him!_

Dean sat back a bit and, under hooded eyes, looked at his slightly mollified host. “At most, I make a decent living. Like I said, I’m working to help my brother get through school.”

_Tell him! **TELL HIM!**_

“I apologize, Sage.” He stared into his cup and murmured, “I grew up with people who used me as their walking wallet, you see. Even as I got older, that trend never stopped, and, although I was never quite the serial dater, those few people I did date wanted me more for my money and influence than for myself.” Shifting in his seat, he cleared his throat and said, “I’m surprised I can even speak about it. It was rather shaming.”

Like that, the moment was gone.

Dean smirked, his inner disgust and shame buried by his desire to know this man, and said, “Your secrets are safe with me, Cas. That’s one thing I can do. Keep a secret.”

Cas—straight-forward and honest Cas —smiled awkwardly, as if sensing there was something underneath that statement, yet unable to pinpoint it. Dean understood, and felt guilty that the moment to reveal the truth had slipped him by — but Dean felt ill trying to make the words ‘I’m a gigolo, just a whore’ come out of his mouth.

He wanted to know this man — this broken angel — a little too much for his own good.

~*~*~*~*~*~

That afternoon, they parted ways so Dean could get to his evening appointment and Cas could get home to his wife.

Cas smiled sadly as they stood near the subway entrance. Cas was going to take a taxi home, but Dean was going to Balthazar’s in the West Village and didn’t want to put Cas out of his way by taking the offer to share a cab. Aside from trying to keep Bal a secret, of course.

Dean found himself entranced by the shyness that seemed, again, to overtake Cas as they stood among the pedestrian traffic. They got one or two looks, but for the most part everyone flowed by like they were rocks in a stream.

“Can I call you?” Dean asked, leaning into Cas’s space a bit, just enough that Cas had to look up at him.

For a brief, wacky moment, those couple of inches in height difference were beautiful to Dean, like they were designed to make Dean _need_ to kiss Cas. The smile on Cas’s face brightened and he scooted a bit closer himself.

“I would like that.”

Dean smiled back and closed that  fingerbreadth between them, dropping his lips chastely over those slightly chapped, but wonderfully plush pink lips.

He wanted more. He wanted to crush Cas to his chest and demand more, but he had no right to even ask this kiss and he mournfully stepped back. It was even more difficult when he saw that same longing in Cas’s eyes.

“See ya around, Castiel,” he said, quirking a smile.

Cas backed up a step himself, looking like he was putting on his own smile for Dean’s benefit. “Definitely,” he said, waving gracelessly.

Dean turned and walked towards the subway entrance of 59th St-Columbus Circle, but was unable to walk into the stairwell without looking back once.

Cas was still standing there, smiling slightly, and he waved again when he saw Dean look.

Dean chuckled to himself as he walked down. “Sap.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

[1] There were projection TVs since 1985. VHS was a thing already.

[2] This is where I admit I have no real idea about this place; however, I know it’s been around forever, thus safe for this story.

[3] Faith Stewart-Gordon owned the Russian Tea Room (w/her husband for 10 of those years) from 1955-1996.

[i] The Arts Against AIDS fundraiser was the brainchild of Elizabeth Taylor, who was a huge advocate of AIDS research. The organization continues to support the research.

[ii] I’m using the language for the times (even if it’s still used now), although there has been some change. Being “clean” is not a kind way to say this. AIDS as a disease is not “dirty.” The person is not “polluted.” I just wanted to mention that.


	3. I’d Die for You—Bon Jovi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Funerals are attended. Dean and Cas get to know each other. Dean does his job.

# CH 3: [I’d Die for You](https://youtu.be/Qy4yXNWWruI)—Bon Jovi

The seven o’clock appointment wasn’t actually anything ritzy or glamorous.

It was a wake for their friend, Demian, who had died of AIDS-related pneumonia earlier that week. Barnes, also HIV positive, had been inconsolable over the death of his long-time partner and dearest love. It was the third wake Dean and Balthazar had attended in the last two weeks, and there had been stories of more all over the city with no end in sight, since the new drug to slow down AIDS progression — AZT — was currently so expensive and difficult to get ahold of. There were promises that it would be more available soon, but, meanwhile, people died every damn day.

They returned to Balthazar’s townhouse emotionally exhausted, Balthazar forgetting his finesse for once, and dumping his charcoal gray suit coat on a chair back as he flopped backwards onto the overstuffed cream-colored couch. He didn’t even seem to mind he was going to wrinkle his charcoal gray slacks, or his silver-gray shirt. He yanked down his white and silver tie with one hand, covering his eyes with his other, shutting out the overhead light. “Honestly, how many more of these _ghastly_ wakes must we attend?” Although he said it flippantly, there was a small tremor in his voice, and Dean knew he really was emotionally drained by all the funerals.

“I don’t know, Bal. How many gay men are there in New York?”

Balthazar gave a low half-sob, half-chuckle. “You know, Pearl, I was reading the Times recently, and they said that over 11, 000 or so people have died from this damned disease.” He slowly pushed himself up as Dean took a seat across from him on a matching overstuffed cream-colored chair. “That’s 11,000 people who will never see a sunrise again, my friend.” Balthazar sighed dramatically, and Dean chuckled at him fondly, slapping Balthazar’s shoulder as he got up and walked past him to the bar.

Dean reached under the bar for the bourbon and poured them both a finger, bringing the bottle back with him as he plonked the glasses and bottle onto the glass table. He stripped off his black suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his lime-green shirt as he sat back in the chair. He absently tugged down his gray and green tie, undoing the buttons of his shirt collar. “Ah, fuck, that’s better. I can breathe again!”

Dean was about to take a sip of his drink when Balthazar motioned he wanted to toast. Shrugging, Dean held out his glass and Balthazar said, “To Demian! May he enjoy a million blow jobs in heaven, and all the virgins he can handle!”

Dean sputtered at that, but downed his drink, allowing the liquor to burn down his throat and settle in his stomach. “Fucking hell, Bal. What kind of toast is that?”

Balthazar shrugged, and leaned over to pour them another finger each. “I imagine like most of us, it was the random sex that got him in trouble.” He sighed and sat back, eyeing the amber liquid in his glass with melancholy. “If you had told us in the seventies that there were going to be severe consequences to random gay sex, other than the usual clap related issues, I would have laughed.” He swallowed down the liquor and snapped down the glass in one go, flopping backwards to stare at the ceiling. “Even _worse_ , told me that party pooper Larry Kramer[1] was right about the random sex and drug use? What a load of crap! Can’t get pregnant, but now I can get the gay cancer!” He groaned. “I don’t want Kramer to be right. All that work… Stonewall… finally getting recognition…and now, this. Practically back to square one.”

Dean leaned over and gripped Balthazar’s knee, massaging it. “They’ll find a way to cure it. I mean, they’ve already got that drug, what? AZT? We’ll find a cure in no time.”

Balthazar rubbed his eyes with stiff fingers and sighed heavily. “Fucking hell, Dean. When did you become such an optimist?” He mimicked Dean in a falsetto, his hands still over his eyes. “’We’ll cure it in no time!’ Meanwhile, we’re dying off like flies in a cloud of Raid.”

Dean grunted and poured more booze into their glasses. “I’m not hopeful, man. I’m terrified like everyone else.” He tossed back the third finger of bourbon, exhaling forcibly, and contorting his face at the burn. “Damn. That’s good.”

Balthazar laughed from his position on the couch. “Should be. Cost me a minor fortune.”

Dean rubbed fingers through his hair, grimacing at the feel of gel and Aquanet. “Yeah, well, Demian deserves a toast or two, and we deserve to get drunk.”

Balthazar drowned his drink, and, grimacing, he hissed at the burn, pouring more into their glasses. “I’m all for that.”

They finished the bottle easily between the two of them, and, somewhere around three am, Balthazar drunkenly asked, “Do you regret this shady business I’ve dragged you into, darling?”

Dean snorted. “Bal, you stopped me from getting AIDS and taken better care of me and Sam than our own Dad.”

Balthazar groaned, flopping his wrist onto his face undoubtedly hard enough to bruise. “Oh _god_ , you are so maudlin when drunk. I should never let you drink bourbon. And then whiskey.”

“And then more bourbon.” Dean burped. “You started it, you old Queen. Where did you even get that last bottle?”

“Thank you gift from a client a few months ago.” He snickered and slurred out, “That was a particular evening. Quite the ménage à… wait, what’s French for twelve?”

“Orgy.” Dean sniggered into his glass, finishing off the amber fluid, and putting the glass down before wobbling to his feet so he could wander off to bed. “’Night, Bal!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It wasn’t like Dean to keep secrets from either Balthazar or Sam, but something about Cas made him hold his existence close to the chest. Cas was trusting him, opening up to him more and more, telling him things about his life. He rarely mentioned Amelia, only that she had a friend over, or his Mother-in-law was watching her.

But they liked hanging out with each other, even if it was just sitting in a café discussing things. So, they went on outings, but not necessarily _dates_ , per se. At least Dean had never been on a date that didn’t end in sex, so this was completely new territory. It was thrilling.

Cas dragged him to the Guggenheim and a bunch of artsy fartsy places that Balthazar had dragged him to before, for his _education_. Still, there was something about Cas’s quiet enthusiasm about art and history that made him want to listen.

In contrast, whenever Balthazar had tried to explain the importance of knowing the difference between Monet and Manet, he had always just rolled his eyes. Maybe it was because Cas listened to him when he asked something, and he never mocked him for asking something someone who had finished high school would have known.

He just accepted Dean the way he was.

Surprisingly, Cas hadn’t gone to many places in NYC. When it was Dean’s turn to choose the locations, he took Cas to Coney Island to try Nathan’s Hot Dogs. He pushed him to go to a Yankees’ game with him, because he had never gone.

The process was touch and go, because Cas couldn’t stay out more than a couple of hours. He had to leave someone sitting with Amelia, and he didn’t feel right leaving anyone there for too long.

Amelia was in a delicate place with her health, but talking about it set Cas off into a small panic attack, so Dean avoided it.

He instead dragged Cas to other places, like the Statue of Liberty, which was totally touristy, but they both had to admit—with the casual guilt of a native who thought it’d always be there—that they’d never gone. They even went to the zoo, where Cas cried silent tears over the state of the place, and Dean felt bad and they left early.

“I’m sorry, Cas. I didn’t realize it was that bad.” Dean said when they finally got out of the zoo. The zoo was a wreck of a place, the grime of the city overflowing and saturating even there. The tears had started at the bear enclosure, the sight of broken bottles inside the pen, and even evidence of bloody bear prints in there setting him off.[i]

Dean pulled Cas to his chest and wrapped his arms around him, the quiet sobbing and the fists clenched in his shirt new and frightening. Even more unnerving was that Cas felt a tad thinner than he had when he had last hugged him…but Cas was under a lot of stress.

Cas still had to deal with major decisions, even if his underlings, and especially his brother, were covering his absence. He nursed Amelia almost entirely alone, with most of her friends shunning her as the nouveau leper, and her own mother keeping almost surreally busy.

He tried not to think about it and said, “I guess when you’re a kid, places like that look shinier than when you’re an adult.”

Sniffling into Dean shirt, Cas nodded. “I know, Dean. It’s okay. I was just thinking that the zoo is so much like the world right now, just broken and filthy, and no one wants to fix it, because no one has the heart left.”

Dean felt his own heart constrict, and pulled away slightly, using his thumbs to wipe away Cas’s tears.

“Man, if I could fix it all for you, I would.” He kissed Cas lightly, and Cas held it, needy for Dean’s affection. He pulled away, tapping his forehead against Cas’s and whispered, “How about we walk the Botanical Gardens instead?”

Each time they met, it was like that: short and sweet. They never did more than chastely kiss, mostly because Cas’s wife was still alive, but also because Dean knew that if he really ever got to taste Cas, he’d want more. He’d become greedy and selfish, and want more than Cas could give him. He didn’t want to pressure him, even when Cas was the one who pushed for more.

Dean refused because he didn’t want Cas to regret it and come to hate him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In between his precious moments with Cas, he had his job.

He had taken to escorting Anna Milton more often because she enjoyed his company and she felt safe with him. She also paid him a lot for the pleasure of his company. Her career was definitely on the rise, to her family’s chagrin. She liked to credit having Dean on her side.

Anna was from a well-to-do family in Connecticut, and she had defied them to try and start a career in New York. So far, she had landed several small roles, nothing permanent, but with her pleasant personality and her beauty, Dean was sure she’d get somewhere. If New York didn’t devour her soul and send her packing back to Connecticut to find a husband and 2.5 children.

Since she didn’t really know anyone in New York, Dean was a pleasant replacement ‘friend,’ on top of setting off her good looks. He even occasionally even got offers to star in films when he was with her.

Dean wasn’t sure about doing that, but he accepted their business cards anyway.

The sex afterward was just part of the job, and, even while kissing her beautiful skin, he was thinking about the harder planes and olive flesh underneath Cas’s clothes. When he pushed into her, he imagined the heat of Cas’s body. Sometimes, he almost kissed her, he would be so deep in his fantasies of Cas, so clearly he could hear the sounds _Cas_ would make and that Dean would devour off his tongue. He yearned for the hot pants of breath that would steam between them, the feel of muscle and stubble instead of soft smoothness.

And then he would be brought back to reality by Anna’s high voice calling out, “Sage! Sage, oh my god! Oh my god!”

She would break apart under his expert hands, and he would hold her as long as was required.

It was, after all and despite his fondness, a job.

It was cruel, thinking about someone else while having sex, yet he couldn’t stop himself.

Just like the whole time he would imagine it was the scent of Cas’s sandalwood soap and Cool Waters aftershave that was in his nose, and not the soft rose floral Anna favored. That the faint taste of mint was actually blackberries. That the hair in his palms, slipping through his hands, was short and thick, and would stay mussed as evidence of having been thoroughly fucked, and not red, long, and easily tamed into a proper hairstyle.

He hugged Anna closely, the way she wanted, pulling the silken sheets over them.

But, inside, he just wanted Cas.

He needed him.

~*~*~*~*~*~

October was hellacious for everyone.

It was in the news that the AIDS quilt that had been implemented in San Francisco was finally spread out on October 11th at the National Mall in Washington DC, revealing the 1,920 names of passed loved ones.

Those watching on TV bitterly didn’t know whether to feel pride that they had achieved their goal, or just cry over the size and number of the quilts. They were surprised they still had tears left for all those people — loved ones and friends — who were now just names on a quilt. It was recognition, a memorial, but it wasn’t new government action or a cure. People who attended the Great March in DC returned feeling empty and numb, but vindicated in their protests. More needed to be done.

As if to add insult to injury to the world, on October 19th, the global stock markets crashed, sending people panicking. Stocks stumbled and failed to bounce back as quickly as brokers predicted.

But perhaps, for Dean, the worst part was that — now going into five months into his relationship with Cas — Cas still only knew him as Sage.

He had been unable to come clean.

He knew that while Cas _probably_ wouldn’t judge him or hate him, there was that whole loathing of money-grubbers and users. What would he think of Dean now, after all this time, and avoiding the truth? Even though Dean had paid his own way, and never let Cas pay for expensive stuff on his own, what would it look like to an outsider, that a lowly man like him was courting a highbrow man like Cas?

And, really, five months was a long time to maintain a lie of this sort. He should have just told him the truth at the beginning.

But, at least he had kept his love affair off Sam and Balthazar’s radars.

In some ways, it was easier now. Sammy was already at Stanford, all the way across the country. His final month, he had been so preoccupied with the move, his classes, and his books, he really hadn't paid as much attention to Dean as he would have normally.

He didn’t know about Cas, didn’t even suspect, although he did remark on Dean being happier than usual.

Dean—who would’ve usually told Sam sooner— _couldn’t_ tell him because he hadn’t even admitted the truth to Cas yet. Hell, he hadn’t even told _Sam_ about his gigolo ways, even if Sam had an inkling. Dean fucking refused to talk about it, and Sam could only pester him so much before Dean blew up and ran away to Balthazar’s.

This meant his life was still a lie. A lie he was getting tired of living and hiding from the people he loved the most in the world. And, if it had been exhausting to keep it from Sam for all those years, it was downright excruciating to keep it from Cas.

Because with every job, he created a new lie, a new betrayal, and it was killing him a little inside when those trusting blues looked at him like he hung the fucking moon. That wasn’t right, though, for Cas to show a creature like Dean the fairest skies, when a rentboy like him could never do better than crawl in the NYC muck?

Today’s lie was with a closeted senator, who had called Balthazar to arrange ‘company.’ His mistress/assistant, Meg, had come to fetch Dean and take him back to his home under the guise of discussing politics. That was the glory of Sage; he was a wonderful diplomat and actually known as an activist.

Dean was not.

And while the senator was a paunchy, balding man in his fifties — hardly his type — there would be two-thousand dollars more for his bank account, to help out Sammy.

“Even at five-hundred bucks a half hour, you’re always worth it,” the senator had said afterward, his faded gray eyes crawling over Dean’s skin as he put his clothes back on. Meg was also watching him, enjoying the show if the smirk on her face was any indication.

Dean ignored his desire to retch and just slipped his suit back on, grateful for the shower he had taken, although the senator’s attentions never let him feel remotely clean. That man’s stare was like enduring snails racing on his skin—just repulsive.

He went into the bathroom to knot his tie when two small, red-nailed hands slithered around his waist, while a dark head of hair peeked from behind him to meet his eyes in the mirror. Meg was made of shadow, from her black hair to her dark eyes, her favorite dark purple lingerie showing up like a livid bruise against her white skin.

“It’s so nice that you can come out and play, Sage-y,” she murmured, dipping one hand into his waistband. “You’ve been _so_ difficult to catch nowadays. Word is you’ve been favoring redheads.” She smiled like a Cheshire cat in the mirror, her eyes gleaming mischief. “Gotta say, I don’t blame you. She looks yummy.”

He stopped her downward exploration and pulled her hand away. “Off the clock now, Meg. I’m going home.” He smirked at her. “And professionals don’t talk shit about their clients. You know this.”

Meg pouted and stepped back, her satin lingerie obviously La Perla if all his training meant anything. “But you only fucked _him_ ,” she whined, reaching for him again and scowling when he slapped her hands away. She leaned forward, pushing her hands against the sink’s vanity, using her upper arms to push up and show off her breasts. They were, admittedly, quite nice, but he wasn’t interested.

He rolled his eyes, ignoring her petulant expression, and finished tying his tie. He turned to face her while he pulled his jacket from behind the door and slipped it on again, looking exactly as he had when he had arrived: discretion personified.

Turning to look at her, he said, “Meg, he paid for two hours with _him_. He asked me to eat lunch with _him_ , so he could unwind, and then he asked me to fuck _him_. You were not included in the deal.” He beamed at her and winked. “Next time, ask him if you can play, because, honey, this was not my problem.”

She glared at him for a moment, but she knew he was right, and she shrugged. “Can’t blame a girl for trying.”

As he walked past her, back into the room, he tipped up her face with a finger and chuckled, “Sure I could.”

Dean heard her huff as he walked out. Meg was a tetchy one, and he was playing a dangerous game, blowing her off like that. He briefly considered fucking her just to keep on her good side, but he was tired and had just showered.

_No way._

The senator had passed out on the bed, the dove-gray sheets rumpled and rolled around him, his ass still hanging out. Dean was glad he had managed to obviously exhaust the man because the senator liked to whine and rant about his problems and his opponents. Frankly, if he wasn’t getting paid for his time, Dean would’ve punched the old fuck in the face and tell him to eat a dick. He was appalling in his morals, coupled with nauseating ambition. Thankfully, as he walked out and snatched the fat envelope on the hall table by the front door, he didn’t have to tolerate it very often.

He had told Bal to keep his ‘dates’ with the senator to a minimum, thus Meg’s whining. Fuck that. She was the kept woman, not him.

Sliding the pack of money into his inner pocket, Dean sighed and rolled his shoulders. It was going to take him awhile to feel clean again. But two thousand dollars was a good deal. Even if Sam had a full ride at Stanford — thanks to his do-gooder status, excellent references, and stellar grades — living expenses were not cheap, and Dean refused to let his baby brother starve or have to take a part-time job. Sam needed to focus on his studies; Dean would provide.

Dean had managed over the last two years of continuous escorting gigs to save a nice chunk of money, part of which he sent to Sam every month for food, books, and whatever. He was also paying for his own tenement, although he stayed at Balthazar’s a lot, and he was paying for his own wardrobe, which cost a fortune. He also had to pay Balthazar back for the initial loans to help get him started.

So while Dean definitely wasn’t starving, he liked to hold onto cash as much as possible. Too many years without any and having to take care of Sammy had made him uncomfortable spending much.

Dean took the taxi back to Balthazar’s brownstone so he could change into jeans and a t-shirt. He tried to look less like a potential mugging victim to his neighbors, the suit put on the dry-cleaning rack to be taken to be cleaned. Rachel, Bal’s assistant, would make sure it happened.

After having changed and feeling more comfortable already, Dean made his way home via subway. Alphabet City wasn’t the _worst_ area, but it sure wasn’t Fifth Avenue. There were too many homeless crack addicts on the streets anymore, and he wanted them to not notice his comings and goings.

He opened the three locks on his door and shoved it in, the wood having warped from a leak on the floor above, and making it stick to the frame. It opened with a huge pop that his neighbors would have recognized as his being home. It also made for a loud, homemade alarm system. No way he wasn’t waking up to that noise.

He dropped his keys in the ugly metal ashtray they had inherited from John—one of the few things of his they had left when they cleared out John's apartment—and Dean looked around the place. His tenement in the East Village was small, but, without the giant bulk of Sam and his books in the place, it was unnervingly big. Dean wondered if he needed to move out? He had only kept the place because Sam had needed to stay near New York University (the nerd) and because he hadn’t needed Sam to actually guess how much he was making.

He sighed and sank onto the ratty brown couch they had inherited from one of their neighbors as he moved out. The guy had handed over his water-stained, rickety coffee table too, but it was fine like that. It worked and they hadn’t needed much. Looking around, Dean realized he now needed even less.

The place was technically three (tiny) bedrooms, with a small shared area. They were very lucky that Bobby had gotten it when prices were down and had been lucky enough to get it rent-controlled. The tiny rooms had been okay when Dean was 12 and Sam was 8, living with the old man. Even with the living area only having room for the small couch against the wall, the little coffee table, and a dining set for two. Actually, coffee table often served as both dining table and multipurpose area, since Dean liked watching TV when he was home.

Still, Sam needing to study and the ancient, tiny-screened black and white TV with the crappy VHS player, were reasons Dean went over to Balthazar’s so often. After Bal had purchased his fancy TV setup, going back to the old rig was like going back to silent films. It was hard to see _anything_ on the screen, and the fact it was black and white meant he only watched it when he had to.

Dean suspected Sam hadn’t minded because he enjoyed the peace and quiet he got when Dean left. Even when Balthazar had given him the old VHS when he upgraded, it hadn’t improved matters much, seeing as watching Indiana Jones in black and white was like missing half the adventure. 

As for Balthazar, Dean suspected that the new VHS Bal had purchased wasn’t going to last long. He had been eyeing the new systems at PC Richard and Sons—dragging Dean with him—and was probably going to switch to Laserdisc soon. He was such a technology nerd.

But here and now, without the huge, space-devouring Sam, Dean’s life in general felt emptier, lonelier. He wondered how his little brother was doing? They had not spoken much, since Sam was working on acclimating to the high-paced academic life along with the differences between New York City and California. Dean was going to have to wait until Sam could beep him, and he’d worry about the long-distance bill then. Why did phone calls have to be so expensive?

_Ah, fuck it._

He decided to just get up and dig a beer out of the dying refrigerator. Beer in hand, he walked around the place and thought about his options. The three rooms they had grown up in really were quite small, barely fitting the man-sized Dean, much less the moose-sized Sam. The kitchen was compact, maybe a one-butt room, possibly one-and-a-half Jazzercized butts. There was just enough room in the place to stretch out, with Sam gone, along with that judgmental bitchface of his. It was probably more room than most of the building enjoyed, really. Tenement living wasn’t designed to be comfortable, just affordable.

_But, without sharing the space with a Sasquatch, it might be bearable…_

He was about to sit down, having had enough of his depressing thoughts, when his beeper blew up. He raised his eyebrows at it, wondering who was calling him. The number on the screen was Balthazar so he sighed and called him back. “What’s up, Bal?”

 “You finished that job for Adler, right?”

_Not even a hello._

Dean took a pull off his beer to get the distaste out of his mouth. “Yeah, that old bastard. I wish you didn’t book me with him.”

Bal chuckled. “We need his money and his position. The old queer doesn’t want to announce his orientation, even after McKinney[ii] died in May.”

Dean took another sip and said, “Adler said he’s sick of hiding, but keeps mentioning someone named Studds.”[iii]

Bal hummed for a moment. “Oh yes! I remember! Studds was a congressman who was caught with a young guy, like 17, and he got in trouble with Congress. I forget exactly what…”

“Yeah, but that Barney dude came out in May, after that whole McKinney scandal… no backlash there.”

“Darling, people _love_ Barney Frank. They fucking _loath_ Adler.”[iv]

“True enough. _I_ fucking hate him.”

“You can’t even tell me that you don’t enjoy fucking that jackass when most of the state would love to?” Balthazar huffed a laugh, “Although less towards pleasure, and more towards rape, if some of the things I’ve heard are true.”

Dean groaned. “Don’t be gross. Besides, that old bastard would probably get off on it.”

Now Balthazar groaned. “Okay, so who’s being gross?”

They laughed, and then Dean asked, “So you call for a reason, or to vicariously get off on my fucking that old queen?”

He could hear Balthazar shift over the receiver, and then he heard, “You’ve been requested on a cruise along the coast of China by the Gallagher twins. Andy and Ansem apparently thought you were a delight last year, and are requesting your attendance.” He hummed as he read through the request. “You’d fly out with them and the ten other people they are taking with them to Shanghai tonight.” Dean could hear the flutter of paper as Balthazar put it down. “You’d be gone a week and a half. You in or out?”

Dean looked around his empty rooms. “Yeah, I’ll do it.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean packed his stuff, looking at the few items he kept in the apartment: a nice suit, two pairs of higher-end slacks, three dress shirts, four or five ties, a couple of waistcoats, and two pairs of nice shoes. He mixed and matched from the pile, since he kept the even nicer stuff at Balthazar’s for safe keeping. Dean packed just swimwear and loungewear, though, because the brothers would want to dress Dean themselves, if they went out.

Occasionally he really was just the Ken doll for others to toy with, and, with those two, it was even more so. They enjoyed vying for his attention, mostly because he worked hard not to favor one of the twins. It was hard to maintain neutrality, though, because Ansem had a wicked sense of humor and tended to be a dick with the mean practical jokes. It was just as well they came from ultra-wealthy parents, as they tended to spend millions on outings like this without a thought.

He was about to leave when his beeper went off again. He rolled his eyes, figuring it was Balthazar telling him to get a move on, when it blew up again.

Surprised, Dean put down his bag from where he was stuffing toiletries and grabbed the beeper off the table.

The number belonged to Cas.

Frowning, he wondered what had happened when his beeper again blew up in his hand, Cas’s number again showing up.

 _Must be something important_ , Dean thought as he strode over to the office and dialed Cas’s number.

It didn’t even seem to ring when there was a breathless and wet, “Hello?”

“Uh, hi. This is Sage.”

“Sage…” To Dean’s horror, a wet set of snuffles came over the receiver. “I’m sorry. I thought I’d be better prepared, but… I… I don’t know… and it was…” Cas started sobbing over the line, and Dean scowled.

“Cas, tell me what happened. Are you okay?”

Wet noises and then, a short, soft, “No.” A few breaths and then, “C—can you come over? I… I really need you here.”

“Cas…” Dean was torn. He was supposed to be headed for JFK to meet with the Gallagher twins. He sighed and looked at his apartment. Balthazar would be unhappy, but it was just money. Cas was more important than some self-indulgent twins. “Yeah, okay.  I’ll be there in a bit.”

“Thank you.” Cas rattled off his address in Tribeca, and Dean dutifully wrote it down. He had never really been to that area of Tribeca so it would be interesting.

Cas hung up with a damp, “Bye.”

Heaving a large sigh, Dean called Balthazar back. He knew Bal was going to shit his pants at the change in plans.

“Halos and Horns Enterprises, Balthazar Medios speaking.”

“Yeah, uh, Bal… It’s Dean.”

“Pearl! What’s going on?” His voice suddenly changed and he sharply asked, “What the fuck are you doing? Aren’t you supposed to be about to board a private jet to Shanghai?”

Dean sighed. “Look, I need you to call the twins up and tell them I can’t go.” He paused and considered his possible array of lies. He went, instead, for the truth. “I had a family matter crop up. I need to take off.”

“Family matter?!” Balthazar gasped. “Honey, I _know_ Sam is thousands of miles away, and your Uncle Bobby left you that apartment and retired from the NYPD like a decade ago. He’s in like fucking… _Kansas_ or wherever!” He snorted with derision. “What other family do you have?”

Dean snapped, “None of your fucking business, Bal! Just call it off!”

“I’m not randomly calling off your week in the lap of luxury and my forty-percent cut of $218,000, you ass!” Bal hissed. “This sort of money doesn’t come along every fucking day! Who is it?”

“Fuck off, Bal! Just tell them I had an emergency!” As he moved to slam down the phone, he heard Bal screech, “Better be worth my eighty-seven thousand dollars!”

Dean glared at the old black phone, so heavy he could kill someone with the thing. “Fucking asshole,” he grumbled, looking at the clock and deciding to catch a cab.

 _Cas was worth more than that easily,_ he thought, stuffing different clothes into a knapsack. _He_ _’s worth two or three of me._

And Cas _needed_ him. Cas rarely called him out of the blue and begged him for anything, and especially not to come over, where Amelia lay dying.

Something big must’ve happened.

* * *

 

 

[1] Larry Kramer is a writer and gay activist. Right before AIDS made itself known, he had written a book called “Faggots” that condemned the hedonistic gay lifestyle in favor of monogamy and clean living.

[i] This is, regrettably, a true story.

[ii] Stewart McKinney was a Representative from Connecticut, who died in 1987 from AIDS. It was not known until after his death that he had AIDS, and when it was posthumously announced, it encouraged others to speak up.

[iii] Gerry Studds, the Representative from Massachusetts, was the first openly gay member of Congress. He was also censured by the House for his relations with a 17-y/o man.

[iv]Barney Frank was the Representative for Massachusetts, who came out of the closet after a scandal with his partner was revealed. Until 2013, he was the most prominent of gay Congressmen.


	4. Hold on to the Nights—Richard Marx

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean goes to Cas's, thinking he's prepared for the worst when he really isn't...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check the END NOTES for WARNINGS.

# CH 4: [Hold on to the Nights](https://youtu.be/CBTOGVb_cQg)—Richard Marx

In actuality, Tribeca was not _that_ far from the East Village, but Dean had never really been there. Most of his clients lived in much nicer, ritzier areas of the city. Tribeca was not quite ‘nice enough’ for many of them.

Bal, of course, had nice digs in West Village, on the edge of just everything worthwhile. East Village, where the Winchesters squatted, was mostly industrial areas and broken down tenement housing; more recently, it was also piles of homeless and crack addicts collapsed on the sidewalks. The growing number of addicts in the area made him uneasy, but he liked the area, character flaws and all.

All of which added up to why he had never really been to the Triangle Below Canal Street, better known as just Tribeca. He really had no idea what the area was like.

So, although Cas had told him that his wife had inherited a large space in Tribeca, he wasn’t prepared for the actual building. When he had given the cabbie the address, the cabbie, eyeballing the area Dean hailed him from, confirmed, “Tribeca?”

Dean had nodded, and the cabbie had shrugged.

The drive was 15 minutes, not so bad with traffic. The cabbie pulled up to one of the large, red brick buildings and pointed at the one in the middle. “Here you go, buddy.”

Dean stared at the huge, red-brick building—so many different stories and windows—with awe, his jaw dropping.

“Are you sure?” He gave the address again and the cabbie rolled his dark eyes.

“’Course I’m sure! Now, you getting out, or am I taking you home?”

Dean glared at the man, pulled out his cash, and paid him while scrabbling at the door to get out.

He found himself on the sidewalk, apprehensively staring up at the place.

While Balthazar’s brownstone _was_ pretty large—as it doubled as his office—it lacked the _age_ on Cas’s place. The townhouse was a giant rectangle of a building, at least three stories high with what looked like an attic. The wrought iron handrails that lead up the short staircase to the large white door with golden numbers on it were intimidating for some reason. Dean felt the prickle of sweat on the back of his neck and tried to calm himself.

 _He_ _’s going to find out, you little pissant_. John’s voice growled in his head. _He_ _’ll see you_ _’re a worthless piece of shit from the wrong side of town. He_ _’ll ditch you like a bad prom date._

Dean ignored John’s voice and licked his lips nervously. After all, Dean had known that Cas was rich, seen it with his own two eyes that the guy had connections in odd places. But somehow the red brick townhouse he was looking at was extremely unapproachable because it looked like a historical monument more than a place someone hung their hat.

He swallowed hard, remembering that a crying Cas was waiting for him inside. He hadn’t seen Cas in over a week, thanks to his schedule of shopping trips with socialites and the occasional off-color rendezvous in between, although he had been on Dean’s mind.

Now, he needed Dean. Dean was going to have to man up.

Mentally girding his loins, Dean walked up the short stoop and pressed the small button for the doorbell.

A bell went off inside loud enough to be heard outside, and he shifted uneasily as he waited. Inwardly, he was afraid that Amelia had finally breathed her last, and he would find a broken, guilt-ridden Cas inside. He shook his worries out of his head. He was there to help Cas. 

Taking a deep breath, he moved to press the bell again.

What he wasn’t expecting was the door to be brusquely opened by a short guy with light brown hair and golden eyes. His features were sharp and rather vulpine, an image supported by the red parachute pants, geometric black and white shirt, and the white jacket with some of the largest shoulder pads he had seen off a runway. The man was also sucking on a lollipop, lending him a childish air, which was at a distinct odds with the glare in his eyes.

“Yeah?”

Dean felt his eyebrows jump up as the man actually tried to intimidate him by moving more securely into the doorway, closing the door as much as possible, and blocking his way in. It would have been more effective if Dean couldn’t just look over his head and peer in…but…

“I’m looking for Cas.”

The guy looked him over and popped the lollypop out. “Who?” He asked, his gaze hard and sharp.

Dean wanted to roll his eyes. “For Cas?”

He received a hard suspicious look.

“Castiel?”

The man had a good poker face; there was no sign of recognition. Dean started to wonder if he had gotten the wrong address, when, from behind the guy, there was a familiar (if hoarse) voice.

“Gabriel, who’s there?”

The guy, Gabriel, turned his head to speak to Cas. “Some dude looking for you. I’m not letting him in.”

Dean heard the exasperated sigh and tried not to smile.

“Gabriel, let him in.”

Gabriel glared at him, and hissed, “You better be here for a good reason, bucko. Or I’ll make you wish you were _dead_ than look at my little brother.”

 _Ah_. Things slid into place. This was Castiel’s brother, the one who couldn’t hack the boardroom. Dean smirked and poked at the door with a stiff finger.

“Best reason in the world,” he cooed at the fuming man. “Cas asked me to come.”

Still glaring, Gabriel let him in.

The entranceway was just wide enough to accommodate a couple of people. There were pegs on the wall for coats, a spot to put any galoshes, and a small umbrella stand. It turned into a narrow hall, with a few connecting doors, and an equally narrow staircase that was worn, but beautifully polished. There were gorgeously detailed rugs on the wooden floor, and the walls were a light, dusky blue. Consolation bouquets covered the hallway table, which looked thankfully looked solid considering the number of vases and condolences that were nearly stacked on it. A few of the bouquets were dead, the flowers drooping and black, among what looked like a new flood of vivid and alive specimens.

It was unnerving and kind of creepy.

Cas was standing at the bottom of the stairway, dressed in rumpled, stained khakis and a pink polo shirt. He looked thinner than before, his hair messy and unwashed, a few days growth of facial hair evident on his jaw, and his eyes bloodshot in his pale face. He looked like he was drooping a bit, his usual liveliness gone.

He perked up a bit and a trace of color lit up his face as he reached out to Dean, and Dean’s heart constricted as Cas bleated out, desperate and heavy with grief, “Sage!”

Dean ran over and took the shaking man into his arms, the thin, trembling fingers that gripped his shoulders somehow not feeling at all like the strong man who he had seen not too long ago.

“I’ve got you, Cas,” he murmured into his hair.

“She’s gone,” Cas wept into Dean’s shoulder, shuddering with each breath. “I… I went to get a drink, and when I came back…”

“Shhh…It’s not your fault, Cas.” Dean ran his fingers through Cas’s hair, stroking from the crown to the base, trying to soothe him. “You’re human. You can’t always be there.”

Cas clung harder, gulping out huge sobs, and Dean felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up and found Gabriel looking grim and pointing in the direction of one of the doorways.

“Take him in there. I’ll get us some tea.”

Dean nodded and ushered Cas into what looked like a setting room. It was decorated in an 18th century style of fussy porcelain figurines and uncomfortable-looking wooden furniture with embroidered seat cushions. The Oriental rug that covered the wooden floor was a dark blue with white and yellow accents, probably to help accentuate all the knickknacks, as was the robin’s egg blue walls.

There were way too many of the things for Dean’s tastes, but whatever. He didn’t have to look at them day in and day out. Although it was disturbing that even the mantel for the fireplace was painted a bright white, and the side tables were covered in more figures of shepherds and shepherdesses than he could shake a stick at.

He settled them onto the _definitely_ uncomfortable, wooden-legged couch with some sort of pastoral embroidered scene for seat cushions, and just held onto Cas.

“Cas, c’mon…talk to me.”

He leaned back and looked into Cas’s face, wiping away the tears from the dark circles under Cas’s eyes with the pads of his thumbs. Under his knuckles, the brush of scruff was soft with a red-tinge to it.

Cas peered up at him with red-rimmed eyes, and whimpered, “I knew she was close. She was so close to dying, and I… I just wanted a drink.”

His eyes grew wide with guilt and searched wildly for something in Dean’s face. He whispered harshly, guiltily, “I… I wanted to get _away_ from her. From the stench of death… from the sores…and wheezing rattle of her breath.”

The blue gaze unfocused and he babbled, “She was having problems breathing…it came out in rattling hisses… hisses… I couldn’t… and she just…and she wouldn’t open her eyes…she just…wheezed… each breath was a struggle… her shuddering for each one…”

Tears started to fall from his unblinking, unseeing eyes, as his breathing sped up, like he was going to hyperventilate.

Dean shook his head minutely, and brusquely took Cas by the shoulders, trying to get him to center on him. “Cas…how long have you been in this house with her alone?”

Blue eyes blinked and met his with effort. Cas swallowed hard, his trembling fingers grasping at Dean’s face desperately, as if searching for some sense of reality.

“I—I don’t know. What day is it? Thursday?”

Dean grabbed the quivering hands and held them with one of his own, while pushing back Cas’s hair with his other, dropping a kiss on his forehead. Cas sighed softly as Dean tugged on his hands and pulled him into a hug.

“It’s Monday. I saw you about a week and a half ago.” Dean felt Cas start in surprise and then audibly swallow hard.

Dropping his head against Dean’s shoulder, he heard Cas murmur, “No-no-no-no- _no_ … it was just _Tuesday_. I…I came home and she was weaker than usual, struggling to keep her eyes open. So I stayed with her. I stayed with her until…until I just couldn’t.”

“I…went to get a drink and—” Cas shook his head, his breath hitching as he tried to stop himself from crying. “No…Not _Monday_. Must be just _Wednesday_ or something.”

Gabriel took the moment to put the tray with tea mugs on the table, and Dean threw him a glare.

“You left him alone with his dying wife?” He hissed.

Gabriel glared back. Now, Dean could see the man was pale beneath his tan. His lips were bloodless and he looked like he had been rubbing at his eyes. “I didn’t _know_ , damn it. He didn’t tell me she was that close!”

Cas was muttering incoherently against Dean’s shoulder, “She’s so thin. So very thin. Where did my Amelia go? I… where did she disappear to?”

Dean just cradled and rocked him softly, humming under his breath, until Cas settled and fell into an exhausted sleep against his chest. When Dean tried to move him, he found he couldn’t: Cas had his arms wrapped around him and had tangled his fingers into the edges of Dean’s Metallica t-shirt

Gabriel sat across from them, in the one of the two matching wooden-legged chairs with the same embroidered blue cushions, sipping from a plain white mug, and staring.

He eyed Dean up and down, and—out of the blue—muttered, “I know I recognize you from that flirtatious moment with Cassie at Lizzy’s shindig, but…” His gaze narrowed. “You seem familiar from somewhere else.”

Dean contained the shudder that wanted to escape him, and, looking away to collect himself, stroked Cas’s hair. Cas shifted and grumbled adorably, and Dean found his courage. He draped on his best shit-eating grin.

“I can’t imagine where. I go to those sorts of events fairly often, though. Maybe one of them?”

Gabriel huffed into his mug.

“Maybe.” He swallowed his tea and jerked his chin at Dean and Cas. “I’m glad you showed up. He was nearly hysterical when I finally caught up with him.”

The gaze of those golden eyes dropped heavily on Dean as he added, “I really didn’t know Amelia was _that_ close to death. Cassie doesn’t like to talk about it.”

Dean hummed a song as he managed to pull the sleeping man onto his lap, still running his fingers through his hair. He wanted to smile because Cas definitely needed a haircut, his dark hair making full curls at the nape of his neck. Thankfully, in his sleep, he was already regaining some of his color, too.

“What about you, bucko?” Gabriel asked suddenly. “Where were you?”

Dean was still humming tunelessly.

“Cas told me he didn’t want to burden me with his home life.” He pushed the fine hair around Cas’s ears back behind the shell, belatedly realizing he was actually humming ‘Hey Jude’ without thinking.

“So…what? You knew that Amelia was dying and you still decided to fuck my brother?”

If Gabriel was hoping to make Dean feel guilty or open up using shock, he missed his mark. Dean lifted his attention off of Cas to look Gabriel in the eyes, and solemnly said, “I’ve never had sex with your brother.”

From the big eyes and the slightly opened mouth, Dean could see he had surprised Gabriel. Quietly, incredulously, Gabriel asked, “Never?”

Dean chuckled, fingers moving soothingly over Cas’s head. “Never.”

He took Cas’s hand and slotted their fingers together, rubbing Cas’s knuckles with the ball of his thumb. He thought for a moment and stared over at Gabriel, adding, “Because of Amelia.”

Gabriel let loose a low whistle, and took another sip of his tea. The only sounds were the traffic outside, the soft snores Cas made, and Dean’s humming. Dean waited for Gabriel to break his silence, the older man obviously thinking about what Dean had said.

Dramatically, Gabriel put down his mug with a snap.

“Not even a _handjob_?” He finally asked after a moment, persistently.

Dean snorted. He knew Cas had wanted to get more physically involved, at least a little bit, but Dean was still swimming in guilt and he didn’t want Cas to be even more of an adulterer than he was. It would hurt Cas more in the long run, he knew. So no matter how often Cas had tried to push things along or slid his hands over Dean’s often evident boner, Dean refused to do it.

Moments like this made him glad he had refused.

“Not even that,” he easily affirmed.

“Well, damn. If that’s not true love, I don’t know what is.”

Dean just shook his head and tried not to laugh.

~*~*~*~*~*~

As it turned out, Cas had passed out that quickly due to exhaustion and the fact Gabriel had slipped a mickey into the bourbon shot he gave him to calm him down about fifteen minutes before Dean had arrived.

“I mean, I got here as soon as I could, y’know?” Gabriel explained after he and Dean had wrestled Cas into bed and they were alone, eating take-out Chinese. “As soon as Cas had realized Amelia had died, he immediately called our family doctor. That guy… he told me he had prescribed something to make Cassie relax, but the stubborn ass refused to take it.” He shrugged, looking completely unrepentant as he chewed on his Orange Chicken. “So I slipped it in his drink.”

Dean rolled his lips in, holding in his desire to punch Gabriel and stabbing at his Mongolian Beef, mostly because he understood why Gabriel had done it, but it was still a dick move.

“The doctor also called Amelia’s death, so she could go to the funeral home without going first to the hospital to be called.” Gabriel poked at his chicken absently. “And I phoned the coroners. Which was actually more of a bitch than I thought.”

“Because she had AIDS, right?” Dean was familiar with this. The families of some of his friends who had died of AIDS had faced the same issue, often having to pay more for preparations because of fear. Especially when the disease first became recognized in the early 80s, and no one knew where it came from or who it would infect. It was like hearing about the Black Plague, the way the bodies were treated.

“I wanted to cuss them out because, I mean, a woman, someone’s _wife_ died, and they were treating her like garbage,” Gabriel snarled lowly. “I had to bribe them to treat her humanely, and I don’t even know if that worked once they left my sight!”

“Wearing triple layers of gloves, they double bagged Amelia and took her away.” Gabriel was scowling hard now, angry and disgusted. “I know they’re scared, but… fuck. Amelia was still a person. She deserved better.”

They talked a bit more about the woman Dean never got to meet, and who they took away for cremation before he even arrived. More bouquets arrived, a few wreaths, and a fruit basket. They put them on the side table with the rest.

“I have to make a bunch of phone calls and arrangements,” Gabriel finally said after they both stood a moment staring at the fruit basket. There was a pineapple in it, and it just looked so odd compared to all the white mums, carnations, lilies, and roses. “Can you keep an eye on Cassie?”

Dean nodded. “Sure. And I’ll… clean up a bit.”

Gabriel nodded and wandered off to Cas’s home office.

So, while Cas slept, and Gabriel dealt with the obituary and the mounting number of condolences — as well as the media’s interest in the CEO of Clarewell Pharmaceuticals, Inc. — Dean cleaned the house. There was evidence of a housekeeper stopping in, if the stocked refrigerator and emptied trash cans were any indication, but the dead arrangements in the hall, the bedding covered in bodily fluids and that probably needed to be burned… Dean handled it all, and was ready to take responsibility for doing it when Cas woke up.

Cas might be angry about Dean messing with things, but the bedding was contaminated, and no cleaner in the city was going to want to handle them. They would have to burn the bed later. Like the bedding, blood and other stuff that had soaked into it, making it unusable. It also reeked of death and long-term illness. The whole room was going to have to be aired, cleaned, and disinfected. Dean made a mental note to get Gabriel to hire a cleaning service to do it.

When he finished all that and left a pot of soup to simmer on the stovetop, Dean made himself at home in the den, where it was obvious Cas spent more time. The room was an interesting octagon-shape, with five of the sides covered in bookshelves, with everything from texts on pharmaceuticals and trials, to a section of nearly untouched fiction.

Cas had a copy of Stephen King’s ‘IT,’ which Dean had not yet had time to read, but from the creaky and stiff way the book opened, he could tell it had never really been opened. In the inside cover, in a sprawling, careless script, was the inscription, “To my baby bro, who I pray will someday get a pop culture reference. Maybe a book will work!” And it was signed, “Gabriel.”

He had plucked that out of the bookcase and settled himself into the black leather La-Z-Boy. The room also had a small TV and VCR against one wall, while a table was set up with a mostly done puzzle of Westminster Abbey and a wooden chessboard at the end. Gold-hued curtains kept out the sun, with a richer golden brown rug covered the floor.

It was, Dean reflected, like being in a beehive chamber.

Feeling oddly comfortable, Dean fell deeply into the book. He was just reading about Stanley making something of himself, when a deep cough dragged him out of the plight of The Losers’ Club.

“Sage, what are you doing here?” Cas stood in the doorway, leaning heavily against the frame, looking extremely wobbly, a fist rubbing sleepily at one blue eye.

With Gabriel’s supervision earlier, Dean had removed Cas’s khakis and shoes, leaving on his boxers and shirt. Now, completely rumpled and in white socks, one of which had partially slipped off his foot, leaving them all floppy at the toes, and with creases on his cheek from his pillow and his scruff a bit flat on that side, Dean couldn’t help but think that Cas looked adorable.

“I was waiting for you.” Dean carefully put down the book (it was a first edition), stood up, and strode over to Cas. “How are you feeling?”

Cas sighed.

“Like hell.” He pushed into Dean’s personal space and wrapped himself around him, tucking his face into Dean’s shoulder. “I was hoping it was all a dream, but I went into the bedroom, and she’s really gone.”

Dean hugged him close. “Gabriel actually handled most of it. I took care of the bedding and stuff.”

Cas tilted his head back and peered blearily at Dean. “You didn’t have to do that. It could have waited.”

Dean smiled and brushed his thumb over Cas’s bottom lip. “It’s fine. It needed to be done, and you aren’t exactly in the shape to handle it.”

Blue eyes stared up at Dean, brimming with affection. “How are you so perfect?”

Dean snorted like a dying manatee.

“I’m hardly that, Cas.” He kissed Cas’s forehead. “How about we get you something to eat? You’re way too thin.”

He felt Cas nod against his chest, and smiled briefly, wrapping an arm around Cas’s waist as they made their way slowly to the kitchen.

The white refrigerator was well-stocked, so it was easy to pull out makings for a sandwich. Dean slapped together a turkey on rye, while checking the soup he had left simmering on the stove.

“You’ve got an amazing kitchen,” he commented, eyeing all the brand-new appliances, and even a microwave oven. Of course, Balthazar, the nerd, had one, but they were kind of expensive for Dean’s tastes. Dean was very impressed with the stove, though. It was a huge gas stovetop with an oversized oven, big enough to fit a 20-lb turkey easily.

There was also a bar with a marble top, with a set of four bar stools for people to eat at instead of going into the separate dining area, which shared space with the kitchen. The dining room table was large, with six chairs around the oval table. It had that abandoned feeling, though, as if no one had used it in a long time.

Cas smiled wanly. “Amelia liked to cook, before she got sick.”

 _Landmine!_ Dean grimaced internally and turned back to his pot of soup.

“I made some soup but it isn’t very fancy,” he said with a blush. “Um, my Mom used to make tomato and rice soup for us when we weren’t feeling well…”

He pulled out a bowl and ladled some of the soup into it, putting half the sandwich on a plate and a spoon next to it. “Anyway, like I said, it’s not fancy but, uh, it’ll fill you up.”

Eyeing the food, Cas said, “Um, it looks delicious.”

Smiling, Dean insisted, “It is, I promise.”

Hesitantly, Cas dipped his spoon in and took a sip. He smiled slightly and took another spoonful.

“This is excellent, Sage. Thank you.”

Dean grinned, relieved to his core that Cas was finally eating.

“I’ve been making it for my brother for almost eighteen years, so I should have it down!”

Cas carefully nibbled on the sandwich. “You know, I think I forgot to eat,” he said slowly, after swallowing his bite with some difficulty. “I get stressed, and I don’t get hungry, and I just forget.”

Dean got Cas some water—which he gratefully took a sip of—and murmured sadly, “Cas, you can’t do that to yourself, man. You’re already so thin.”

Smiling crookedly, Cas stirred his soup, watching the small whirlpool of rice and tomato, and admitted “I don’t mean to, but it’s not a priority when things happen.” He blew out a heavy sigh, and ran a hand through his bangs.

“God, was I stressed.”

Dean walked around the counter and took Cas into his arms. “Look, Gabriel handled most of the arrangements, so you don’t have to do much. You slept for just twenty-four hours, so you’ll still have to meet people and the ceremony…”

“And you can’t be there, can you?” Cas gripped his arm with surprising strength, powered undoubtedly by fear.

Humming, Dean rubbed his jaw against Cas’s hair comfortingly.

“I wish I could. But… I wouldn’t feel right.”

Sighing, Cas seemed to deflate a bit, his shoulders sagging. He looked so small perched on top of the stool, eyes still bloodshot from all the tears, face still drawn in lines. He nuzzled into Dean’s chest a bit, breathing in deeply, looking like he was trying to collect himself.

“I know. I understand.” He sounded defeated, his voice a whisper of resignation. It broke Dean’s heart.

“C’mon, Cas. You gotta eat more, okay?” He pressed another kiss into Cas’s hair. “For me, please?”

Cas grumbled, but turned back towards his food, letting Dean do the same.

“It’s just…” Cas started after a bit of silence. “I can’t believe she’s gone.” The dark lashes fluttered down to brush pale cheeks and he mumbled, “I can’t figure out if I feel relieved she’s no longer suffering, or sorrow that she’s gone.”

Dean paused mid-chew to look at Cas, who was stirring his soup forlornly.

He swallowed, because he wasn’t a total caveman, and said, “Why does it have to be one or the other?”

Cas half-shrugged, his face looking pale beneath the dark scruff on his jaw. “It seems like I should be suffering the loss more than feeling relief, but I’m finding it difficult to differentiate right now.”

Dean looked in Cas’s bowl, seeing that Cas had barely eaten any of it. “Cas, you need to finish this bowl of soup. Then we can get you in the shower. Don’t worry about it now, because we have all day tomorrow to think about it and it’s not exactly going to go away.”

Cas sipped on his soup some more, looking tired, and muttered, “Did you know she was only twenty-nine?”

“If there’s a god, he’s a right bastard.” Dean took another bite of his sandwich, debating what to tell Cas. He swallowed and added, “A lot of my friends have died from AIDS. I’ve been to more funerals in the last two years than in my whole life. It’s like the Black Death or something out there. I’m losing friends faster than I can say the alphabet.”

Dean stabbed at his soup, like it had offended him. “So many people, all their potential just stolen from them. I mean, what kind of god does that?”

“She wanted kids.” Cas pushed around bits of rice. “She was looking forward to having a daughter.”

He chuckled darkly. “Wanted to name her Claire St. Clare.” The chuckles dissolved into sobs, and he dropped the spoon and started crying again.

“I can’t I can’t _I can_ _’t_ …”

Dean gathered him up, noting that he had only eaten half the soup at best, and a small piece of the sandwich.

“It’s okay. It’s okay. Let’s get you in the shower. Get you scrubbed down and into some real pajamas, alright?”

Cas nodded, and he carefully led him up the staircase. Cas paused now and again, as if the sheer weight of his grief would drive him to the ground, his knees so shaky and weak that Cas would nearly collapse under it. Only Dean holding him up kept him from striking the stairs too hard as his legs gave out, and Dean was grateful that he was strong enough to hold him.

Because Cas was so thin, he wasn’t very heavy. In fact, he was frighteningly light in Dean’s arms.

Worried, Dean got him into the bathroom. The guest bathroom was on the smaller side, completely white except for the small stack of dark gray towels and the matching plush rug. A small shelf over the toilet with said gray towels, a frosted-glass shower enclosure, and a plain white toilet completed the room. It was simple, lovely, and obviously recently renovated.

There wasn’t much to fall on in there, but he was worried that Cas wasn’t going to make it into the shower itself. He closed the bathroom door as Cas started to disrobe.

“If you need anything, just holler, okay?”

Wanly, Cas smiled and continued to tug at his polo shirt like it was a Chinese finger-trap.

Dean stood outside the door and waited to hear the water. When there was no movement and definitely no sound of water running, he lightly tapped on the door.

“Cas? You alright in there?”

Silence was his answer and concern reared its ugly head in his heart.

“ _Cas?_ You okay?”

No reply.

Panicking, he pushed it open to peek in, glad it wasn’t locked, to find Cas had collapsed completely naked in front of the white toilet at the shower door.

“ **Cas!** ”

Dean crouched down, subtly looking for blood, and Cas sobbed, “I just can’t, Sage. It’s too much effort.”

“C’mon, Cas,” he murmured, helping Cas stand. “I’ve got you.”

He helped Cas get a seat on top of the toilet while he stripped off his own clothing. He then turned on the water, waited until it was moderately hot, and—while holding onto Cas with one arm—stepped into the shower. He closed the frosted glass door with a click, and let Cas lean against him under the spray.

“Y’know,” he chuckled as he wrestled with the water faucets to make the water a bit warmer. “When I imagined getting you naked for the first time, I had a different scenario in mind.”

Cas huffed into his chest.

“So did I.” He tilted his head to look at Dean. “Can we still give it a go?”

Dean blinked in surprise, unsure of where this was going.

“Uh… now?”

Cas spat out water that flowed down over his head, and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck.

“You’re the only person to touch me in years, Sage. I… I want to forget for a while. I… want to feel _real_.”

There was desperation in his voice, in the way he clung and touched Dean. Dean trembled as a hand raked through his hair and Cas began nibbling his way up Dean’s neck.

“Please, Sage. I’m begging you. I…I just want to feel something other than this pain for a moment!”

Dean looked down into Cas’s eyes, how despair burned in them. He could tell his body was up for it, because his body was _always_ up for it, but his conscience burned with bitterness.

Licking his lips nervously, he cautiously said, “I don’t want to do this when you’ll hate me later, Cas.”

Usually brilliant blue eyes were dark and turbulent with various emotions that were buffeting him, and Cas shook his head, looking certain of what he wanted.

“I just want to _feel_. My body feels numb but I’m feeling so much pain.” Cas nibbled at Dean’s jaw and kissed him gently. “Just for a moment, let me think about something other than Amelia.”

Dean hesitated, his hands on Cas’s sharp hips that were slowly, softly rutting against him. He kissed Dean again, his lips lingering over Dean’s and pleading on a puff of breath, “Please. I’m begging you.”

Dean groaned, caught between wanting to do the right thing, and Cas’s desperation. He didn’t want to have sex with Cas without telling him the truth: that his name was Dean, that he wasn’t the wonder that Cas thought he was.

He was nothing more than a pricey rentboy.

But Cas again got demanding, kissing Dean insistently, the sweep of his tongue begging entrance. Dean let him in, and Cas tasted like salt and tomatoes, and Dean couldn’t get enough of it. The heat, the desperation was making Dean dizzy, the shower forgotten as slippery hands slid over each other’s body. Their cocks grew hard and the sensation of rubbing together, with nothing between them, was mesmerizingly good.

“Sage…”Cas whimpered, pulling back, his pupils new moons in his sky blue eyes. “Please…I want you to fuck me.”

Dean looked at how Cas’s dark lashes were stuck together, his lips swollen and red, the blooming bite mark on his throat, and wondered if Cas could get any more gorgeous?

He kissed Cas urgently and then murmured against his lips, “I’m not fucking you for the first time in the damn shower.” He almost relented when Cas let out a low keen, but then kissed him gently.

“We are going to shower and I’m going to take care of you.”

Because he couldn’t look at Cas without wanting him, he forced Cas to turn around, ignoring his loud protestations. He took the washcloth and got some Dove soap on it, and, while holding him around the waist with one arm, slowly, tenderly washed Cas’s body.

Dean had not washed someone since his little brother still needed help in the tub, but something about washing Cas was a pleasure in itself. He aimed the showerhead lower as he realized the water was striking Cas awkwardly. As he worked the washcloth over Cas’s body, he could explore the planes of muscle and skin with glee.

He found spots that caused Cas to choke and flinch, gasping, “That tickles!”

He memorized the spots for later exploration.

As Dean washed over Cas’s thighs and groin, Dean heard him moan, swallowing hard as Cas turned his head and tucked his face into the crook of Dean’s neck. Cas panted faintly as the soft cloth rubbed over his hard cock, his breath fanning over Dean’s jaw. Unable to stop himself, Dean rocked his own hard length between Cas’s ass cheeks, enjoying the shuddering gasps that elicited. Those gasps eventually became moans as Dean cupped Cas’s balls and fondled them with the small soapy square. Entranced by the sound of Cas’s pleasure echoing in the steamy bathroom, Dean kissed him, his tongue slipping over Cas’s slowly, swallowing Cas’s breaths even as he slipped soapy fingers underneath to the smooth skin under Cas’s balls. With stiff, practiced fingers, he rubbed hard circles into Cas’s taint, smiling as Cas sharply inhaled at the sensation and then began to wail his pleasure into Dean’s mouth at the pressure of the massage.

“Does that feel good, Cas?” He asked, as he worked his mouth along the long line of Cas’s neck and shoulder, biting the hard muscle of his shoulder and making Cas sob.

“S—Sage…I w—want to come…” Cas managed to get out, his body bowed as Dean continued to massage him and then, dropping the washcloth, added the stimulation of working his other hand over Cas’s cock, still holding Cas up with his arm and propping him against his chest.

“C’mon Cas, let it go. Come for me. Let me see you at your most beautiful.”

And then, with a cry, Cas came hard, the first shot splattering against his shoulder, and then all over Dean’s hand as he continued to stroke him through it, whispering against Cas’s neck, “I got you. I got you.”

Cas leaned bonelessly against Dean, exchanging lazy, open-mouthed kisses, nipping at each other’s lips and tongues. Dean had forgotten how much he loved kissing like this, slow and deep, since it wasn’t something he regularly did.

In fact, he couldn’t remember it ever being like this.

Cas chuckled, his mouth stretching into a smile, lolling his head against Dean’s shoulder. “I don’t think I can move. I haven’t come that hard in my life.”

Dean grinned, pressing another kiss onto Cas’s receptive mouth. “Then I’ve done my job right.”

Cas groaned and flipped himself so he was again chest-to-chest against Dean, wrapping his arms around him.

“You haven’t even washed the rest of me, Sage.”

Dean fought the flinch at the name but still dropped kisses along Cas’s shoulder as he chuckled.

“Of course, monsieur.” Dean winked. “Just remember, I said I wasn’t going to fuck you. Other things are up for grabs, though.”

Cas nibbled his way across Dean’s throat, distracting him from his priorities. “I have to pick up the washcloth again, y’know?”

“I’m okay with just soap,” he whispered against Dean’s chest, his pointed tongue darting out to lick at the tiny pool of water that had gathered in the dip in Dean’s clavicle.

Dean tried not to react, but Cas was well aware of the effect he had on him, since Dean was still hard between them.

Cas tilted his smile at him and said, “Wash me, Sage.”

There was mischief in his voice, and, when Dean proceeded to wash down his back, Cas surprised him by reaching between them and gripping his cock.

“My turn,” he mouthed against Dean’s chest, apparently having enough strength to stroke Dean and turn an attentive — and pointy — tongue on Dean’s nipples, nipping and snickering whenever Dean jerked at his touch.

Not to be outdone by an amateur, Dean put the creamy soap to good use, rubbing against Cas’s hole with soapy, questing fingers. Cas jumped slightly and Dean grinned at him. “Touché.”

Cas laughed—a beautiful sound—and sped up his hand, demanding that Dean kiss him. And he did, again delving into Cas’s mouth with enthusiasm, running the pad of his finger over the tight ring of muscle before pushing in the tip. Cas gasped into his mouth at the intrusion, pausing in his stroking to run his thumb over the head of Dean’s cock and making him groan.

“Cas, stop teasing me,” Dean mouthed over Cas’s throat, nibbling at his ear. The man gasped, and resumed his fast pace. Dean felt the buildup, the buzzing feeling that crawled up his spine and meant he was close. He clutched Cas close to him and shouted, spurting over Cas’s hand and himself.

He leaned onto Cas, panting, and wheezed, “I must be getting old. That took a lot of out of me.”

Apparently pleased with his performance, Cas chuckled and kissed him. There was more making out, more touching as the bar of soap was passed between them, all while Dean mostly leaned against the wall and Cas leaned against him.

As they did so, Cas murmured, “I’m so glad I got the water heaters upgraded, or we would have drowned in cold water by now.”

Dean had to agree.

He also had to hope that Gabriel had just gone home. He didn’t think he could face the man right now.

They dried each other off and got into the fluffy bed, both still naked and a bit damp. More lazy kissing ensued, with hands and mouths making exploratory journeys, but they were both tired, and even making out was becoming too much.

They fell asleep in each other’s arms, and Dean counted it as the first time he willingly slept in someone’s bed after sex in his life.

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief, depression, loss. Guilt, fighting, death. Shower sex.


	5. Alone -- Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean helps Cas deal with Amelia-related issues. Gabriel is a butt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check end notes for warnings.

# CH 5: [Alone](https://youtu.be/1Cw1ng75KP0) \-- Heart

When Dean awoke, it was with the groggy understanding he wasn’t at home, nor was he at Balthazar’s.

The mattress of the queen-sized bed he was currently buried in was covered in a soft down bed-pillow that he was sinking into, and piled up with green-and-white patchwork quilts and forest-green down duvets. The off-white ceiling and a mellower shade of pine green on the wall, gave the room a pleasant air, like he was waking up in a forest or some shit. Although the whole house had richly tinted wooden floors, in the guest room, it was covered in a plush beige rug that Dean didn’t even want to think how much it cost.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, since the deep moss-green curtains were closed.

It really was a lot of green, although they were all different shades of the same color. All the decorative touches were off-white and beige, so it wasn’t like he was drowning in a bog, at least.

Yawning, he looked over, and found his arm around a still sleeping Cas, and relief buzzed through him.

Cas got some sleep.

Now he just had to get him to eat.

He dropped a kiss on Cas’s shoulder, ignoring the grumble that evoked, and padded to the bathroom, shivering in the chilly morning air. He did his business, washed his face, and dug around to locate a toothbrush, finding a new one in the medicine cabinet for guests.

He closed the cabinet and found himself looking at his reflection, taking inventory: his mussed hair, the chains of hickeys that Cas had left on his chest and throat, the bite on his right shoulder that he didn’t remember getting, and, of course, his body’s pleasant aching in the aftermath of sustained shower sex.

As he stared at himself, evaluating the ravages of a desperate and horny Cas, he felt his personal shame flare and start to move to the center of his attention.

He needed to tell Cas.

He hated to hear Cas call him ‘Sage.’ It was driving him mad, like the name tainted Cas’s mouth. He hated to hear him say something hundreds of others had used, the comedic mask he used to oil his way around the high rollers.

The only people in the world who called him Dean anymore were Bobby, Sam, and Balthazar. It was like Dean had been lost the night Balthazar had picked him up, and now there was nothing, just this shell called Steven Taylor Sage.

He scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing his eyes with his palms, and briskly swiping them over and through his hair. He had a crazy thought, but it felt like finding the toy at the bottom of a cereal box—something he had had to dig through to find—a tiny bit of joy that was fragile and hard-won.

He was going to quit.

He was tired of the game, anyway, and he had enough of a nest egg that he could help Sam out. That was the only reason he had kept at it for this long. Now he had enough to move to Kansas and help out Bobby, if he wanted to. Get out of the game while he still had his looks and his pride.

_But if you leave New York, you’ll definitely lose Cas._

Cas, the fucking wild card in this game.

Cas of the untamed sex hair and hypnotizing blue eyes.

Cas, the man he was probably falling in love with, who had no fucking idea who he really was, and… fuck.

_Fuck fuck fuck._

He folded in on himself, clutching the edge of the stand-alone sink with tight, bloodless fingers, and staring at the bright white tile between his feet.

Desperately, he squeezed his eyes shut and refused to think about it anymore. _Not right now. **Not right now.**_

John’s dark voice bubbled up to mock him: _you_ _’re going to break him, son. You_ _’re going to break him, just **shatter** him, and then you_ _’ll see I_ _’m right. That you_ _’re no good for anyone. You_ _’re useless!_

Dean suddenly realized it was hard to breathe, sweat broke out all over his body, and the world began to blacken at the edges. He staggered to sit on the toilet as John’s voice nattered on, sneering: _what are you going to tell him, boy? That you_ _’re a fucking whore? You think someone as **used** as you can help that man? _

He struggled to catch his breath, tears welling up as he felt the panic roll over him.

John’s voice maliciously whispered: _you_ _’re no good, boy. You_ _’re my son. You_ _’re going to end up at the bottom of a bottle too, twisted and ruined. You_ _’ll end up like me. Just. Like. Me._

Outside, there was a soft knock and the doorknob rattled as Cas tried to come in.

“Sage, are you alright in there?” Concern colored his words, and Dean stared at the door as another round of panic rolled into him, making him put his fist in his mouth to silence the sob that wanted to come out.

 _That name again! Fuck, I should tell him now. I should_ _… but his wife just died_ _… and_ _… fuck fuck fuck._

“Sage? Can you hear me?”

At the slight sound of panic edging Cas’s voice, Dean took a deep, rattling breath, trying to control his sniffling and shaking. He blew his nose and swiped at his eyes, trying to breathe in and out calmly.

He had to be there for Cas. Now was not the time. _Control it. **Get it together!**_

“Yeah, just a minute.” He managed to get out. He swallowed hard and stood up. He rubbed soap over his face and turned on the hot water to give him an excuse for why his face and eyes were red. He swiped at his running nose with a soft, gray washcloth and sniffled hard, willing himself to stop crying. He scrubbed over his now-squeaky clean face with a dry towel as he turned to unlock and open the door, wrapping it around his shoulders and pretending to still be drying off the water.

“Morning, Cas! Am I in your way?” He snuffled into the towel and dabbed his still-watering eyes with it.

Sleepy Castiel was beyond adorable. He squinted grumpily at Dean, his lips curved into an improbable pout that was nearly hidden by his beard, his usually fluffy hair tangled into a bird’s nest. He had stopped to put some light blue pajama pants on, but they didn’t hide the fingerprint bruises along his hips or the peppering of hickeys along his abdomen that led down beneath the elastic.

Dean chuckled and touched the bruises on Cas’s neck with a light finger. “Dude, you’re totally going to need a shirt to hide that.”

Confused, Cas squinted into the mirror as Dean shifted out of the way. On seeing the hickeys, he squeaked, “Aw fuck!”

Leaning over as he passed him, Dean dropped another kiss onto Cas’s shoulder, and asked over his shoulder, “Got a shirt you can lend me?”

Distracted by the multitude of bruises, Cas loudly replied from inside, “Yeah, take whatever fits. There’re some t-shirts in the middle drawer.”

Dean smirked as Cas glared at the bites along his neck, scratching at his beard with even more irritation, and Dean knew the beard’s existence was going to be short-lived. Cas closed the door and Dean closed his eyes and sighed in relief.

If his hands were shaking as he looked for a shirt, well, that was his little secret.

~*~*~*~*~*~

While Cas finished getting ready, Dean had decided to come down to the kitchen to make breakfast. The microwave clock said it was 930, which was a relief because he thought it was later. However, his relief was fleeting.

The click of the kitchen door startled Dean as he was putting together the ingredients for omelets, chopping up vegetables and putting them in separate bowls.

Gabriel strode in, looking tired and grumpy.

Dean quirked an eyebrow at the bags under the man’s eyes, and asked, “Coffee?”

“Oh fuck yeah!” Gabriel threw himself onto the stool at the kitchen bar and groaned.

“It’s too early to do death things.”

Dean nodded. “I agree. But you did a lot yesterday.”

He poured a cup of coffee in another white mug and handed it to Gabriel, murmuring, “I’m sorry I really can’t be much more help…”

Gabriel chortled. “Are you fucking kidding me? Just the sheer fact someone else can keep an eye on Cassie while I get this shit done… it’s beyond awesome.”

He took the mug and snatched the sugar bowl, shoveling in three heaping spoons of sugar.

Horrified, Dean gagged. “Dude, that’s gross. It’s like a cup of sugar with a drop of coffee in it.”

Gabriel took a sip, grimaced, and spooned even more sugar in. “You make it stronger than Cassie does. That’s nasty.”

Rolling his eyes, Dean turned back to the stove. “You want an omelet?”

“What are you putting in them?”

“Well, not candy canes and caramel, that’s for sure.”

“Hardy har har.” Gabriel shook his head. “Everyone thinks they’re a comedian, which is sad when the only funny person in the world is me.”

Cas walked in just then, yawning, but clean shaven, and wearing a plain t-shirt and a ratty pair of paint-splashed jeans. “Are you guys fighting already?”

Gabriel snorted. “It’s a one-way battle since he’s unarmed.”

Dean shook his head, firing up the stove and putting the onions, ham, peppers, and tomatoes into a pan.

“Nah, your brother just wanted a hint of coffee with his sugar, and I teased him for it.”

“So what’s going into these omelets again?” Gabriel asked, sipping his coffee-flavored syrup.

Dean huffed. “I just put onions, ham, peppers, and tomatoes in the pan. Is that okay?”

“Seriously? That’s a lot more vegetables than I gave a man like you credit for.”

Cas grimaced, taking a seat at the other barstool. “It’s really too early for banter. I declare this a banter-free zone until I’ve had my second cup of coffee.”

Dean poured him a mugful and handed it to him with a kiss to the cheek.

“He’s adorable when he’s grumpy,” he teased, earning a glare from Cas.

“Two cups before banter,” he growled, guarding the mug with his hands and not adding anything, just drinking it straight.

“Now, see kiddo? That’s gross.” Gabriel jerked his thumb at Cas’s blissful expression, and Dean just chuckled and turned back to his frying veggies to add the eggs.

Dean put some bread in the toaster, and flipped the omelet, humming as he did it.

Gabriel sipped his coffee-flavored sugar and observed, “Huh… you’re much more domestic than I thought you would be.”

Dean snorted as he located and pulled the butter dish from the refrigerator.

“I had to raise my little brother. He couldn’t live off fast food _all_ the time.”

He reached over and grabbed Cas’s mug, where he was staring sadly at the bottom of it. He refilled it and handed back, almost missing the quiet happiness that suffused Cas’s face, which made him smile as he turned to put the toast on a plate, replacing it in the toaster with new bread slices. Flipping the huge omelet onto a plate, he divided into three parts and handed Cas the toast and first piece.

“Eat up!” He ordered, pointing at Cas for emphasis.

Cas nodded and bent over the plate, carefully taking a forkful. He groaned appreciatively at the flavor, reaching out to butter his toast.

“Oh my god, this is so good!”

Dean grinned. “My brother was a particular little thing about stuff being nutritious, once he realized that we weren’t supposed to live on McDonald’s.” He shrugged. “I could’ve.”

Gabriel laughed at him, as Dean handed him a plate with his omelet, and then served himself. The toaster went off again, and Dean switched out the toast for new bread slices, handing the slices to Gabriel. When he looked down at his plate, however, there was a buttered piece of toast.

Checking out Cas’s plate, Dean could see he was nibbling on his piece of toast, and, unless Cas had stuffed the other piece into his mouth and swallowed it, he had given it to Dean.

“Cas, _you_ need to eat this. You need to gain back some weight!”

Cas swallowed the tiny bite he had taken and stared right back. There was a silent battle of wills, until Cas said with finality, “I’ll just take one of yours. It’s fine.”

Huffing, Dean started eating, ignoring Gabriel’s snort of laughter.

“Holy shit, you two are like an old married couple!”

“Shut up,” Dean said amiably, reaching over to get Cas and Gabriel’s mugs to refill them. “Cas is too thin. He needs to eat.”

Gabriel watched him refill the mugs, his golden gaze lingering on him. Dean tried to ignore how Gabriel was pointedly watching him with narrowed eyes, even as he chewed on his food. He swallowed, his brow furrowed and eyes narrowed as if he were trying to figure something out.

“So… your name is Sage, right?”

Dean nodded, his mouth full of egg as fear pinged through him. Cas was idly picking the peppers out of his omelet and eating them separately. Gabriel hummed, poking at his omelet and looking as if he were trying to figure something out.

“It’s eluding me, but I’m sure it’ll come back eventually.”

Dean smiled brightly, his heart beating fast in his chest.

“I’m sure it will!”

Suddenly, his food tasted like ashes and he coughed as he turned to get some coffee and give himself some time.

“Leave it alone, Gabriel.” He turned in time to see Cas slap his brother’s hand away from where it was reaching for his collar, and Gabriel frowning harshly.

“Hey, you look like you lost a necking battle with a lamprey!” Cas sat up abruptly and clapped a hand to his neck where one of the bigger hickeys was visible under the shirt collar.

“As your big brother, it’s my responsibility to make sure you’re okay.”

Cas glared at him and snapped, “I’m not twelve anymore, Gabriel! You can’t stop me from doing anything I please!”

And, with that, he pushed away from the counter, only half of his food eaten. He left behind a deflated Gabriel running hands over his frustrated face, and an annoyed Dean.

“Look, man, I don’t give a shit if you feel like you have to investigate me, okay?” Dean pointed at Cas’s abandoned plate. “But Cas _needs_ to eat! He’s too thin! He could barely stand yesterday!”

From behind his hands, Gabriel breathed out hollowly, “I know. I _know_.” Flopping flat onto the counter with a boneless slap, Gabriel rolled his eyes.

“Yeah, I get ya, loverboy. My baby bro needs to eat and he shouldn’t be alone.” He made a shooing motion, and Dean sighed, following Cas out.

~*~*~*~*~*~

He found Cas sitting slumped on the bed in the guest bedroom, staring blankly at the green walls, quiet tears just pouring out of him.

“Why?” He asked, not even turning to look at Dean, “Why can’t I have this _one_ thing?”

Dean closed the door behind him for privacy, and settled onto the bed next to him, regretting that Cas had straightened it and they couldn’t snuggle into it.

He shrugged.

“I dunno, Cas.” He wove his fingers together with Cas and lifted it to kiss the back of the cold, trembling hand. “He’s just trying to protect yo—“

“ ** _He doesn_** ** _’t get to do that_** ,” Cas snarled, turning to Dean, indignation burning in his swimming eyes.

“He doesn’t get to say who I see, or who I _fuck_! He hasn’t been here more than a couple of days here and there in the past six months!”

Cas wrenched his hand out of Dean’s grasp and instead cupped the sides of Dean’s shocked face.

“You have been here for me more than he has in these last few months. I—I thought for certain that I was going mad! I haven’t been to work in over two months because of Amelia. I’ve barely spoken to anyone! I haven’t touched anyone,” he breathed out in a rush, his eyes darting over Dean’s face, the pads of his thumbs brushing against Dean’s cheekbones and jaw.

“But, you,” he finished quietly.

Dean leaned in and touched his forehead to Cas’s and, breathlessly whispered, “Cas…”

For a moment, they sat there, sharing breaths, foreheads touching, and Cas sniffling as he brought himself under control.

“Sage…” Cas missed Dean’s minute cringe. “I… I realize this isn’t the time but…”

Eyes fluttering shut, Dean hoped Cas wasn’t going to say something he might later regret. Nervous, Dean’s hands sought something to do, and reached up and took ahold of Cas’s fine-boned fingers where they lightly grasped his jaw, massaging the knuckles with the pads of his thumbs. They were cold to the touch and he tried to work some warmth into them.

“But what, Cas?” He asked, ignoring the anxious note in his voice.

With their faces still so close, he heard Cas lick his lips and swallow with a click. “You—you’re the only reason I’ve been able to tolerate this. To tolerate being here, in this house alone with _her_.”

It was starting to sound like the thing he feared the most in this situation, and Dean scowled as pain rocketed through his core. His eyes flew open and he found Cas had tilted his head towards him. He was looking into Dean’s face again, his lashes dark fans against the fragile flesh of his upper eyelids, the blue of his eyes like looking into the Mediterranean Sea in summer.

Cas freed a hand and cupped the back of Dean’s head, pulling him in for a kiss.

It was short and tender, and it spoke to Dean, resonating with the feelings he had stuck in his own chest that he couldn’t pry out. He _shouldn_ _’t_ pry out.

Not right now.

“Sage—“

Again, the name struck him, and the panic he had fought down again this morning battled to run wild in his throat. Every day, it struck him harder. Every day, he had to calm himself and remember: Cas had enough on his plate.

Cas—oblivious to his turmoil—kissed him again, lingering this time, sharing a soft breath between them. He licked his lips and nipped gently at Dean’s bottom lip, his eyes open and watching Dean’s react as he whispered, “I think I’m in love with you.”

John’s voice in his head chortled: _he said that to **Sage** not you._

It was cruel. It _felt_ cruel. All the words in his head, the voice of his Father had flung at him, echoing into his adulthood— _worthless, ignorant, incapable_ , _poison_ —buzzed to life in his head, and Dean knew it was his own fault it had gotten this bad.

Dean swallowed hard, tried to hold it together, knowing Cas was a moment away from losing it all over again, the languid relaxation of being able to forget about everything for a night fading away under the light of the sun.

He smiled wanly, and said hollowly, “I know, Cas.”

Avoiding looking into those beautiful trusting eyes, Dean pulled Cas in close again, and held him. If Cas noticed he was quivering, he didn’t say anything.

But inside, John’s voice nattered snidely: _You_ _’re a fucking failure, Dean Winchester. You can_ _’t take care of yourself and you want to take care of this man? You_ _’re poison. Pure gay poison. You_ _’re going to destroy this man with your lies and faggotry, and no one will be to blame but yourself._

He ignored his Father’s rant and smoothed his trembling hands over Cas’s back. “You’re okay, Cas. You’re going to be all right.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

They cremated Amelia on Wednesday, with no fanfare, and Cas in no shape to see it done. The funeral home kept the ashes for the ceremony. But it was finally Friday, and they were holding a wake for her.

Since Monday, Dean had mostly stayed at the townhouse.

Cas couldn’t be left alone, and Gabriel still had to take care of things at the company sometimes. At night, Dean soothed Cas’s nightmares and held him as reality would suddenly break over him and Cas would just start sobbing into his shoulder. Dean’s own experiences with death had not really prepared him for this, but he did his best. In his experience, death was almost impersonal, even John’s. At the time, it was almost a relief to see John go. At eleven, almost twelve, Dean hadn’t known what else he _could_ feel. Not when he still had Sammy to look after, and no idea what the future held.

So, as Dean sat on the bed and listened for Cas in the shower, Gabriel leaned against the doorway and told him about Amelia.

“She knew what she looked like,” he muttered, running a distracted hand through his long hair. “Amelia had known she was all boney edges and paper-skin.”

Dean didn’t respond, just letting Gabriel get it out.

For the wake, Cas had had to take out a few photographs of Amelia’s life. In some of the photos, she was very young, the bloom of youth still on her. Cas had mentioned they had met when they were eighteen, at orientation, and had married spontaneously during the spring of their sophomore year.

Dean stared at the photos while Gabriel nervously chattered on. “Y’know, she used to have lovely, long blonde hair that she had lost when she got sick. She constantly wore a kerchief in her embarrassment, but she was still beautiful.”

He heaved a sigh. “But then after she was diagnosed with AIDS, it got worse.”

Dean nodded. After all, the young Amelia in the photos wore her long blonde hair in French braids and apparently liked sundresses. In other photos, her smiles were quieter as she worked in the kitchen or painted a wall in stained overalls, grinning an ‘oh you’ at the camera. Even later were photos of her with colorful kerchiefs over her head, smiling gamely, the illness obviously wrecking her body, as she was slowly pared down to skin, bones, and fighting spirit.

Almost talking to himself at this point, Gabriel whispered, “I mean, her eyes used to sparkle with humor and intelligence. But towards the end there, they had sunk into her face!”

Gabriel scowled at the bathroom door as the sound of water suddenly cut off. “I don’t know how he did it. She was so thin and weak. She refused to have any shiny surfaces in her room to even see herself in, because she knew she looked like shit.”

“He loved her,” Dean said mildly. “You don’t give up on family.”

Tawny brown eyes stared at him dispassionately, before Gabriel shook his head. “You got this, right? I’m going to run downstairs and check the answering machine for any messages.”

He fled downstairs, his face pale, and Dean sighed.

Gabriel was trying hard, Dean had to give him that. He just sucked at taking care of others. As far as Dean knew, Gabriel had told his girlfriend that he was going to be in and out taking care of Cas, but hadn’t asked her to help out, counting on Dean instead. Maybe that was Gabriel’s way of caring?

Waiting for Cas to come out, Dean eyed the other photos Cas had chosen to represent Amelia’s life. The only photograph with Cas in it (probably because he was always the one behind the camera) was newlywed Castiel and Amelia St. Clare.

In some ways it was the most distressing because Cas was so young, Dean’s age at most, his face full of love and hope. It was a hard contrast to the man he was now, one who looked like he had gone to war and come back a broken man.

The bright and joyous expression in the photo was nearly foreign, the roundness of youth and its glow making Cas’s face brilliant, and rendering Amelia’s face gorgeous. He in his powder blue tuxedo; she in her high-necked wedding gown, the lace covering her down to her wrists and then flaring a bit. She had a flower crown of daisies in her hair with a tiny lace veil, and she was clutching a small bouquet of daisies and baby’s breath in her free hand.

This was a couple who was blithely, joyously happy.

Dean envied Amelia that she got to have that young and cheerful Castiel. He also understood her love, since he realized over the week that he shared it: he loved Cas.

He loved the grumpy morning Cas. The sleepy evening Cas. The flirtatious Cas that liked to look up at him through his eyelashes. The Cas that kissed him demandingly. The Cas that laid in his arms, begging him to help him feel something other than the numbness.

It was a shame Dean never got to meet Amelia. That he only knew this vibrant woman from the pictures and Cas’s stories: she loved to cook, like mystery novels, and adored daisies. They might have gotten along, although Dean was sure he wouldn’t have wanted to share Cas.

Cas was his.  
  
As he sat thinking these random thoughts, Cas emerged from the bathroom in his boxers, smelling clean and looking freshly shaved. He still looked tired, but there was a little more life in his face. They had been sharing a bed for the last few days, and that seemed to really help Cas relax enough to get some sleep. The one thing Dean didn’t like, because he couldn’t do it, was when Cas would push for full-on penetrative sex.

Cas wanted Dean inside him, and Dean refused.

The man was delirious from exhaustion, grief, and regret. Dean needed to keep some boundaries until Cas knew everything about him and had some distance from Amelia’s passing. Dean didn’t feel right about fucking Cas without full disclosure. After all, Cas had never been with a man, or anyone, actually, aside from Amelia.

He deserved to have a beautiful experience.

Still, it was hard. It was one of the hardest things Dean had ever had to do in his life.

Those nights when Cas curled into him, voice hoarse and begging to be filled with something other than self-hatred and grief, Dean complied as much as he could. He kissed him, covering his throat and chest with bites that made Cas whimper and clutch his fingers in Dean’s hair. He found Cas was sensitive to his nipples being nipped, that he writhed if Dean plucked at the dark nubs and sometimes nearly came just from that. Dean found that just one finger inside—rubbing that sweet spot—made Cas squirm and buck, that every flick of his finger against it turned the name “Sage” into a growled prayer, a plea for redemption.

It broke his heart to hear that name, but the moment was for Cas, not for him.

And, despite the wrong name coming from that swollen mouth, watching Cas break for _him_ —coming hard and shouting his name—was almost magical for someone like Dean, whose sexual experiences had almost always been business transactions. The fact he could _kiss_ Cas was in itself enchanting, the intimacy of it thrilling him, addicting Dean with the taste of _Cas_ on his tongue. It was something better than sex, something he never imagined sex _could_ be, and he felt possessive and greedy for that tenderness. He thought he could never get enough of it, those pink lips parted with his name on them, seeing those blue eyes blow wide for him, _only_ for him.

Cas was everything he had idly dreamed of and imagined when he dared think of a lover, but—still—out of his reach. 

It left Dean breathless and scared, and, when Cas finally fell into an exhausted, fucked out sleep, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling Cas closer and peppering him with adoring kisses.

He had never known that love was like this. It left Dean terrified.

                                                                                         ~*~*~*~*~*~                          

The wake had waited until Friday because Eleanor, Amelia’s mother, had to return from a conference out of town. Cas hadn’t said anything about it, and, in fact, avoided the topic, but Gabriel spat insults at the woman out of Cas’s hearing.

“Old bitch couldn’t hang up her professor hat for her own daughter’s death!”

At Dean’s surprised look, Gabriel had sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Okay, look, Eleanor is an ambitious woman and a professor of Medieval Studies at NYU. She stayed with Amelia when she could, but she’s working towards tenure, and that means putting in a lot of hours.”

He looked around for Cas, and then leaned in to mutter, “But, for reals, the old bat didn’t stay with Amelia very often. I think she was doing it a bit more the last few months, since the, y’know, _diagnosis_. I think those were the times that he snuck out to meet you. ‘Cuz the only other person he trusted Amelia with was her best friend, Lisa.”

Dean had nodded, having no real idea who these people were, and not being able to attend the wake regardless. He knew if he went, Cas would hang onto him instead of Gabriel, and there would be awkward questions that Cas was in no shape to answer.

So, it was Friday when all arrangements for the wake were finalized. Today was the day for the formalities that came with Cas’s position. The day Eleanor returned, no doubt (Gabriel snidely said) bearing a stiff upper lip and thinking of England.

Although Cas mostly avoided talking about Eleanor, he did mention her lack of attachments. “She technically has no family left,” he had commented on Thursday when Dean had tentatively asked about her. “Amelia’s father passed away years ago from a stroke, but Gabriel joked it was from living with the Ice Queen.”

Gabriel did not like Eleanor, and he was open about it. Dean could see why he did not survive the boardroom, with all its underhanded tactics: the man couldn’t keep his opinions to himself.

So, while Gabriel was downstairs, undoubtedly pacing, Dean attended to Cas in the safety of the guest bedroom.

Cas had refused to step foot in the master bedroom. It left Dean to fetch Cas’s clothes, but especially one of his black suits with a white dress shirt and a dark blue tie for the wake. He had tried it on, but he had lost so much weight since the last time he had worn it, it hung off him like he was a scarecrow.

Thankfully, Gabriel had rallied and forced Cas to go with him on Thursday morning and returned Thursday night with the altered suit.

This was how Cas was now standing in front of Dean, fussing with his cufflinks. He was having problems getting the little bar to flip, as his hands were trembling. Dean smiled at how he was trying to hold himself together, his heart breaking for the guy, and reached out for his hand.

“Here, let me,” he said gently.

Cas held out his arm, and Dean slid his hand down his arm, to where the cufflink was half-way out. He smoothed out the two cufflink holes and pushed the cloth to the side with a thumb so the bar easily flipped into place. When the cufflink was set, Dean pulled Cas’s trembling and cold fingers to his mouth to kiss them. He gave them a squeeze and let go, only to do the exact same thing to Cas’s other sleeve and hand.

“You got this,” he murmured, reaching out to straighten Cas’s tie. The knot was off and the whole thing was crooked. With a few deft tugs, the blue tie with the silver lines was back in place.

The entire time, Cas just watched Dean with tired, but adoring eyes.

“I don’t believe I can do this,” Cas whispered hoarsely, as Dean fussed with his collar points. “Eleanor is not the nicest of people.”

“Gabriel will be with you the whole time,” Dean replied, reaching over to get the suit jacket from the bed. He held it out, and, shakily, Cas slipped into it. Smiling, Dean snagged the daisy he had left on the bedside table and tucked it into Cas’s pocket.

“I’ll be there with you in spirit,” he murmured, dropping a kiss on Cas’s forehead and ignoring the tears that welled up in Cas’s eyes.

When the limousine arrived, Dean kissed Cas in the bedroom one last time. “I’ll clean up and then head home.”

Subconsciously, Cas tightened his fingers over Dean’s arm, eyes wild. “Yo—you’re returning, correct?”

Dean smiled faintly, running his fingers over the soft hair at the back of Cas’s head. “Your mother-in-law is going to be in and out of here for the next week. Are you sure you want me here?”

Cas swallowed hard and, mindless of his suit, pressed himself against Dean. “I don’t think I can face her for an entire week alone.”

“What about Gabriel?”

Shaking his head, he replied, “Gabriel has to go back to the office. He won’t be able to stay with me very often while he’s taking care of the company in my absence.”

Dean stepped away and smoothed out Cas’s suit jacket. He looked quite dashing in his black tailored suit, crisp white shirt with the blue tie with the silver lines, and charcoal gray waistcoat. Like a hot blue-eyed penguin.

Grinning at him, Dean ran a finger under one of the suit’s lapels, and tried to change the topic. “You got this tailored to fit, huh? It looks good on you. You clean up pretty good.”

Cas colored under Dean’s regard. “This is not the time to make me seem remotely sexy, Sage,” he muttered, fussing with his tie. “I’m supposed to somehow get through this elegy that Amelia wrote _for_ me, keep it together while in front of like a hundred company friends and distant family who are more likely there to gossip and eat free food. _You_ won’t be there, and, possibly worst of all…” He paused, disgust rolling over his face. “I’m going to have to depend on Gabriel.”

Dean chuckled and took another step back. “I’m going to go get some more clothes because, although I like wearing yours, they are a bit small in the shoulders.”

He touched the tip of Cas’s nose, making him smile faintly.

“So you’ll be here when I get back?” Cas asked, eyes wide and hopeful.

“Definitely.”

Dean watched Cas step partially into the limo, only to stop and look back, waving his hand in a short wave, his eyes bluer than the overcast New York sky. He smiled encouragement to the man and waved back.

He sighed as he turned back into the house.

“I’m running out of time,” he muttered as he closed the door behind him and knocked his head against the wood as he leaned back on it. “Fuck me. I can’t keep doing this…”

~*~*~*~*~*~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Panic attacks, grief, guilt, anger, Gabriel being a butt


	6. It’s a Sin—Pet Shop Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cas is unstable, and Sage makes it all worse. Much shattering of porcelain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please check end notes for warnings!

# CH 6: [It’s a Sin](https://youtu.be/QkwgMMNXjTc)—Pet Shop Boys

Somehow, the week following the wake slowly passed.

Cas had survived the wake and his mother-in-law, who was something of a dragon.

Or perhaps it was just Dean never did get on with the ‘butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth’ type?

Anytime they were in front of the old monster, Dean was sure to keep a few feet away from Cas. He had kept to that logic all week, trying to prevent the old beast from saying shit about Cas. So, even at times like this, even when Cas looked ready to murder her with the fancy-looking white porcelain vase he was holding, he was just out of reach of stopping him.

Not that he wanted to.

The funniest thing, though, was Eleanor’s gasp of horror and scandalized expression when she scolded him with, “Not the lead piece to the garniture set[i] I gave you two for your ninth wedding anniversary!”

Cas’s glared at her, a flicker of madness in his eyes, and, grabbing the other matching large vase off the side table, he stalked over to the setting room’s fireplace and flung them in with a hard crash.

They hit so hard, they shattered into small shards, some of them bouncing out onto the rug. He rounded on her, ignoring her pale face and affronted look, and screamed, “SHE FUCKING _HATED_ THOSE THINGS! WE ONLY KEPT THEM TO SHUT YOU UP!”

Eleanor looked ready to open her mouth to say something, undoubtedly rude, but Cas was already reaching for a porcelain figurine of a woman in an 18th-Century gown. She frowned at him and started to open her mouth when he got a grip on the figures head and, with just his eyes, dared her to say a single thing.

She closed her mouth and beat a hasty retreat, her gray eyes slanted angrily at Cas, her lips thin and bloodless. From her expression, Dean could tell this wasn’t going to be the last of the fights over Amelia’s things.

The battle was Cas’s, but it was seriously a war of attrition on Cas’s nerves.

With her gone, Cas threw himself backward onto the couch, the back of his neck against the wooden frame and his head hanging dejectedly.

He grumped, “I hate this whole room. It was Amelia’s idea. It’s so fucking stuffy, none of the furniture is comfortable, and you have to pretend you have a stick up your ass just to feel right about this pretentious furniture and fucking tchotchke[ii]!”

Dean carefully sat next to him, leaning over slightly so their shoulders touched. “Those ugly ass vases were worth a lot, weren’t they?”

Cas squeezed his eyes shut and nodded just a bit. “Eleanor purchased them from an antiques dealer in England. Cost her almost three thousand each.”

Dean was sure his eyebrows were somewhere near his hairline, and he whistled appreciatively. “Lot of money for ‘fucking tchotchke’,” he hummed.

Cas sputtered out a laugh, and if it had a slightly hysterical edge, well, it was only them two in the house.

“I do not care. If I could, I would burn this room.” He sat up to glare at the offending room, especially the collection of porcelain figurines that graced the mantel and the side tables. “You have no idea of the loathing I harbor for white porcelain, this pretentious wooden furniture, or even this Oriental rug she forced me to buy.”

As if unable to tolerate looking at it anymore, Cas dropped his face into his palms and rubbed at his cheeks. “I let her decorate to make her happy, but I didn’t realize how much I hated her taste in everything. I mean, it’s the 20th century. Who the hell decorates in 18th-century neo-classicism? ”

Dean slid a hand over Cas’s back, and Cas groaned and mumbled in between his palms, “I was going to ask her for a divorce, you know? I took her to Lutèce[iii] because I wanted to break it to her somewhere nice, cushion the blow. But she beat me to the punch and revealed that she had leukemia.”

Cas sighed deeply. “I…I just couldn’t let her go through it alone. I know how Eleanor is.”

Dean tugged at Cas and pulled him into a one-shoulder hug, holding him. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

Cas burrowed as close as he could next to Dean and whimpered, “Three years of aggressive treatment, and each year the prognosis got worse and worse. And then, six months ago, she got that blood transfusion for her anemia and that was it.”

He released a shuddering breath into Dean’s shoulder. “I loved her, but I wasn’t in love with her. Not for a long, long time.”

Dean made a noncommittal sound, and they sat in relative silence until Cas was ready to move on.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was a Saturday afternoon.

Almost two weeks after Amelia’s death, Dean walked into Cas’s home to hear him arguing with Gabriel in the setting room.

“God _damn_ it, Castiel! _Listen to me!_ He’s just a _hustler_!”

Dean felt his blood freeze at the words, the keys sharp in his palm as his hand clenched. His breath stuck in his chest. _Was I found out?_

“I don’t know what you think to achieve by telling me that,” came Cas’s cold reply. “I’ve known him for months. He was living with his little brother until recently. He’s an escort, not a—a _prostitute_ like you are saying!”

“Look, I tracked down where I knew him from, because he looks _so_ fucking familiar, and it turned out he’s been in the Gazette a few times, in photos with a few big shots and socialites.”

“Being seen with them doesn’t make him a _hustler_ , Gabriel. I mean, he was escorting that redhead when I met him. That was it!” A pleading note slipped into his voice as he asked, “Why are you doing this to me? Are you that reluctant to let me be happy?”

“Please tell me you haven’t fucked him yet. God knows what he’s riddled with…”

There was a bang, like a hand being slammed down on the coffee table.

Dean moved closer to the doorway, sweat breaking out on his skin. He wanted to break into their fight, but he couldn’t seem to find a way.

“You’re being ridiculous, and, for your information, _no_ _fucking_ has occurred. Sage has been waiting for me to be ready.”

Gabriel snorted. “I bet. At least tell me he didn’t get you to change your will or some shit?”

Another bang, like a chair being knocked down.

“It’s not _like_ that, Gabriel! How many times do I need to tell you!? Whoever said that was _lying_!”

Although Cas wasn’t quite yelling, he sounded frustrated. Dean could hear footsteps rapidly striding on the wooden floor, and Dean’s heart clenched as he realized this was the moment. He was going to have to tell the truth, and find out if Cas was going to forgive him. He swallowed hard, his heart pounding, because he knew Cas hated to be lied to, hated people who tried to use him for money.

 _Not that I_ _’m doing that_ _…but does he really know that?_

“Yeah, no. I tracked down a few of them, mentioning a ‘Steven Sage,’ and most of them shrugged it off, but Senator Adler refused to even look at me. Then, his hot little assistant pulled me aside and told me that Sage is a motherfucking gigolo!”

Dean could hear Gabriel’s exasperated gasp of breath, heard his footsteps on the wooden floor as the floorboards shifted and squeaked.

“I didn’t want to believe it, but she told me where to track down this Balthazar guy, who apparently makes the arrangements, and it turns out he’s a pimp.” He paused and added, “Well, a good- _looking_ pimp, but _still_ a fucking pimp!”

Anger stirred Dean to move, and he strode into the setting room.

“He’s not a _pimp_. No one is working a street,” he growled, glaring at Gabriel. “And if you want to ask someone about their lives, shouldn’t you come to the source, instead of sneaking around like…” He blanked and, pressed his lips together as he made a wild motion in Gabriel’s direction, “Like some sort of sneaking thing!?”

“That was clever,” Gabriel said snidely. He was standing behind the wooden-legged couch, grasping the back of it with white-knuckled hands. He was wearing a dark-brown business suit with a shiny blue and tan tie, obviously taking his lunch break from the office. He glared back at Dean, and he shouted, “So if he’s not a pimp, then what is he!?”

Dean shrugged. “He’s just an agent. He meets people. Greases palms. Makes arrangements. Helps people out.”

At every word out of Dean’s mouth, Cas’s eyes grew wider and wider. His mouth fell open as he paled alarmingly and asked with a shaking voice, “Aren’t you going to deny his allegations?”

Dean rubbed his forehead with his forefinger, before dropping his hand down to his mouth to rub it too. His heart was pounding furiously in his chest, and his stomach was in knots. He felt like there was an orange stuck in his throat that wasn’t letting him breathe much less talk. He tried to say something a couple of times, and nothing came out. Finally, refusing to look at Cas, he said in a low voice, creaking with regret, “I really can’t.”

Cas reeled for a moment, and they both ignored Gabriel’s triumphant expression.  Dean wanted to reach out to Cas, to hold him and tell him that he hadn’t _known_. He hadn’t _known_ that he was going to fall in love. The only person he loved was his brother, and _maybe_ Bobby. But Cas had gotten under his skin, made him want to be a better person. To _change_.

He opened his mouth to say something, anything like that when Cas snapped, “Does… does that mean you were going to try to take money from me…o—or steal something??”

Those trusting blue eyes grew sharp with suspicion as they darted around the room, taking inventory. “Were you going to seduce me? And have me change my will, as Gabriel suggested?” 

The new sneer in Cas’s voice was like a knife to his skin, leaving him bare. He tried to not cringe, but he wasn’t sure how successful he was. Cas turned away from him, refusing to look at him.

It hurt. It hurt so much.

Dean felt the tears trying to surge up from somewhere around his diaphragm, up and around the giant ball of pain in his chest, and he grunted out, “I would never do that to you, Cas. You know that.”

Cas finally turned to face him, his face pale and a fine sheen of sweat over it. “Do I? I’m not so certain anymore.”

He stepped forward, moving into Dean’s space, standing nearly nose-to-nose with him and squinting speculatively. “All these nights, I’ve been pouring my heart out to you, and I don’t actually know who you are, do I?”

Those beautiful blue eyes, usually so trusting and innocent, were cloudy with disbelief and distrust. Cas took a step back and he asked in a disbelieving, breaking voice, “Wait… _is your name even Sage?_ ”

Dean swallowed hard, and looked over at Gabriel, but Gabriel was feeling vindicated and smiling spitefully from where he had taken a seat on the wooden-legged chair. He shifted his gaze back to a nearly incandescently enraged Cas, and minutely shook his head.

“I—I have _reasons_ , Cas,” he tried, reaching out to him.

Cas recoiled and stared at him like he was a weird stranger trying to bad touch him.

“Who _are_ you?” He asked fiercely, his chin up and his eyes aglow. “What’s your real name?”

Dean licked his lips nervously and chanced a peek at Gabriel. He was still sitting smug. _Fucker_.

He tried to heave a cleansing sigh, but it came out shuddering and painful, the ball in his chest refusing to just release it.

“My name is Dean Winchester,” he said softly, pleadingly. “I’m exactly the same person you met, just… a little more fucked up.”

Dean was starting to think that Cas was going to either explode and take everyone out, or use all that taut energy to smite him.

The energy in the room crackled as Cas tried to pull himself together. Finally, he lifted his chin defiantly and glowered at Dean like he was an insect.

“Get the fuck out,” Cas said tersely, pointing towards the doorway.

The ball of pain and fear Dean had suppressed the whole time he was with Cas exploded in his chest like a popped water balloon of self-hatred. He swallowed hard again, the pain filling him completely. He reached out a trembling hand again, and his voice quivered as he pleaded, “Cas, please, don’t do—“

“I SAID GET THE FUCK **OUT**!” Cas yelled, whirling to grab some of the figurines off the end tables and mantle, and chucking them at Dean like fastballs. “GET OUT GET OUT **GET** **OUT**!!”

Dean ducked a porcelain cow, turned and ran, a shepherdess with a lamb barely missing his head and exploding on the doorframe. A shard ricocheted off and nicked his chin as he dodged, while a shepherd with a sitting collie flew past his shoulder and fragmented on the far wall.

He ran out of the entrance, Cas swearing and screaming behind him, and hightailed it down to where he usually caught a taxi, if he needed one. He needed one now. He needed to get home as soon as possible.

He broke into silent, broken sobs in the backseat of a yellow cab, ignoring the concerned stare of the cab driver from the rearview mirror.

It was over.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next few weeks passed in something of a blur, the memory of which he never fully recovered.

Admittedly, it was a _deliberate_ blur of drugs, booze, and sex.

He wanted to forget. He wanted to be numb. He cursed himself constantly that he had hurt Cas, and he was no good. He was everything his father had said he was. He was barely worth the air he breathed.

Sometimes he doubted he was even worth that.

So he drowned himself in hedonism, barely remembering to stay away from needles and to always wear a condom. Not because he wanted to live, but because Sam wanted to be a fine lawyer one day. He couldn’t have a rentboy brother who died of drug addiction or, worse, AIDS.

That kept him clean at least.

Sam was the only reason he maintained that need for safety. Sam was the only reason he got up in the mornings and put on his pants. Sam needed money. Sam needed his brother.

What else was Dean good for?

He took on more jobs for Balthazar, took them all in a row without a break. He sometimes went to the next assignment still drunk or high. He ignored Bal’s concerned expression and avoided talking to Sam except once every couple of weeks, forcing himself to be at least mostly sober for those conversations. He ignored Sam’s questions over the phone, his unease coloring his words.

 Dean nearly threw the phone out of the hotel room when Sam finally commented, “You know you can talk to me about anything, you know, Dean?”

“Talk about what?” He scoffed. “Nuthin’s wrong. Gotta go, ya big girl!”

He ignored Sam’s indignant squawk and hung up, rolling to reach over his client and grab the small mirror at her bedside. There was still some cocaine left. Relieved, he cut the coke into lines and inhaled, letting the drug seep in.

It felt good. Numbing.

Dean didn’t care anymore; he just needed to forget about Cas.

The next night, he went to Switzerland to get loaded with a closeted rock star and ski the Matterhorn with a dozen others. Orgies were not, he realized, his thing. Too many ways to lose track of his condoms, too easy to get infected, too many unknowns that, when he woke up in the morning with a brief moment of clarity, caused him to freak out and run to get tested.

Nope. No more orgies.

He did travel to LA with a film producer, to help entertain guests at the man’s fiftieth birthday bash. He had to be charming and on point, so he only toked occasionally and drank lightly. The film producer tried to get him into one of his films, but Dean declined. He didn’t want to be a star.

He just wanted to forget.

He was hired by an aging socialite, who demanded he accompany her to shop on the Champs-Élysées. She made him hold her purse and bags at every single shop, and they all offered him consolation wine. Much more wine than he was used to on an empty stomach, especially when he couldn’t remember the last time he had eaten. That was how he puked into the Seine, the red merging with the muck of the river slowly, looking like he had hacked up a lung.

He wiped his chin and carried on.

Of course, thanks to his grueling schedule, there was a two-month stretch where his hedonistic lifestyle was being completely bankrolled by his various clients, so his nest egg had become quite large. He was able to send large chunks of cash to a shocked and grateful Sam whenever he got a bonus for ‘services rendered.’

Dean didn’t want it. Better it was used for something worthwhile like textbooks.

But the days soaked in hard liquor didn’t get any easier, nor did the nights drowning in fine Champagne. The cocaine did little but force him to keep moving and make him horny. The ganja at least let him relax and fall asleep.

He _did_ discover that he had no tolerance for LSD. The LSD was a one-time deal that he had quit after visions of John and Castiel chased him up The Strip in Las Vegas. He had ended up puking all over a carousel horse at Circus Circus, and had woken up in the hospital for dehydration.

The only drugs he avoided completely were heroin and crack. He had seen what they had done to people, and he had no real desire to be a statistic. Sam still needed him. He still had Balthazar. He wasn’t going to fall too far down the rabbit hole; he just needed to get far enough to forget Castiel.

It was in that blur that December rolled around, when the drunken haze he had been merely existing in broke with a knock at his bedroom door.

This actually should have scared him more, but the soft, buzzy edges of a smoked bowl were still lingering in his system. He croaked, “Come in,” more out of habit than the realization that someone was out there.

“Holy fuck, what happened to you?”

Dean peeled back his eyelids, which was harder than it sounded, because they were somehow stuck to his eyeballs and didn’t want to move. He squinted at the moose in his bedroom and snorted, “I have proof Yetis exist.”

He broke into laughter, which ended abruptly when he started violently coughing and hacking. Sam sat on the edge of the twin bed and smacked him between the shoulders, each blow hitting harder and harder until Dean started to slap at him to fuck off.

“What. The. Fuck. Sam?” He snarled between hacks, and proceeded to hock up a loogie before pushing his brother off the edge of the bed onto the clothes-covered floor, climbing over him to get out to the bathroom.

He spat it into the toilet and decided to empty his bladder since he was standing there anyway. From out of the partially open door, he heard Sam grump out, “Same to you, Dean. I’ve been paging you for days! Why haven’t you been calling me back?”

“Busy,” Dean grumbled, putting his dick back in his boxers and then washing his face. He stared into the mirror, and he could see the toll the late nights were taking on him. The bags under his eyes could count as carry-ons. He had lost some weight, if being able to count his ribs meant anything.

He flipped off his reflection and walked out of the bathroom to find Sam in the middle of an epic bitchface that was pointed at the teener of cocaine Dean had left on the table, and the empty dime bag on the table.

“Dean, seriously, what the fuck is going on? You’ve never been into drugs!”

Sam turned the bitchlook on Dean, and Dean tried not to cringe. “You always warned me away from this shit and now you’re using?”

Realization flashed onto his face and he asked in a small voice, “Are — is _this_ where you’re getting all that money to send me?”

Dean couldn’t help himself and started sniggering. “You’re _such_ a worrywart.”

Ignoring Sam’s questions, he walked to the refrigerator to get a beer. He popped it open and drank down about half before popping the bottle off his lips with a happy sigh, followed by a monstrous belch that made Sam cringe.

He waved the bottle at Sam and chuckled, “No, Sammy.  I am not selling drugs to support you.”

Dean meandered over to the old brown couch and threw himself onto it. “I’ve never sold drugs,” he said honestly, if with a small grunt as he got comfy.

Sam squinted suspiciously at him. “Then why are you doing this to yourself?”

Dean snorted again, and took another long drink, this time burping under his breath, “Feel like it.”

Huffing out exasperation, Sam sat back. “Dean, do you even know why I’m here?”

“Dropped out?”

Sam threw up his hands.  “No, dumbass! It’s Christmas break! I mean, yeah, I couldn’t come home for Thanksgiving because I had to study, but… man, it’s Christmas!”

It was Dean’s turn to squint. “Is it? Fuck, time flies when you’re having fun.”

“You don’t look like you’re having fun, Dean. You look miserable.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean snapped.

And he had every intention of maintaining that for the rest of Sam’s visit.

~*~*~*~*~*~

New Year’s rolled around with underage Sam in tow, so they ended up sitting at home watching the ball drop on the new color TV Dean had invested in. They celebrated with Chinese take-out and some cheap sparkling wine Dean had purchased at the nearby liquor store.

When Dick Clark signed off, Sam poked at the piece of pie Dean had gotten from a local bakery and asked, “So… are you going to tell me what happened?”

Dean blew out a sigh. He had been thinking about telling Sammy; after all, Sam had essentially moved out. But also, Dean had a feeling Sam wasn’t going to go back until he knew Dean was stable.

He had gone two weeks without a toke. Two weeks without liquor and basically just beer because Sam was watching him like a fucking hawk. He barely got toilet time, Sam was so in his shit.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Dean said stoically. He refused to look at the flannel-wearing giant perched on the arm of the ratty brown couch, staring at him with understanding eyes.

“You know what I mean. What happened? Right before I left, you were so happy.” He shook his shaggy head, the hair just past his shoulders. “And now… now I feel like this is a suicide watch.”

Dean stood up and changed the TV channel to 3, and turned on the VHS player. “You’re imagining things, man. Just let it _go_.”

He popped in ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark,’ sank into the couch again, and waited for Sam to try and ‘talk about their feelings’ again.

Sure enough, just as the theme song started up for the ‘Temple of Doom’ trailer, Sam said, “But Dean… it was like you were glowing… like you were…” Sam stopped and stared at Dean like he was a Hovito native who had popped out of the jungle.

Dean glared at him. “What? I was _glowing_? What does that even mean?”

Sam sat up straight and leaned over, his face curious and tinged with excitement. “Dean… holy fuck… were you in _love_?”

In retrospect, Dean should have anticipated Sam figuring it out. Sam was a very smart cookie. Sam also knew how to read Dean like a diner menu. He reflexively cringed, and that was enough for Sam to breathe out, “Holy fucking shit. You _were_ in love!”

“Shut the fuck up, Sammy,” Dean griped, ignoring his gaping little brother, and intently watching Indiana find the way into the cave.

He wagered his brother was going to explode within five minutes.

If he had been betting against someone, he would have lost. Sam manage to hold it together until Indiana was bargaining for his whip versus the idol, and then burst out, “Who was it?”

Dean sighed the sigh of the direly put upon. “Who?”

“The person you were in love with? Who was it? What happened?”

“Aw, _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Sammy! You’re not going to leave me alone, are you?”

He made the tactical mistake of looking over and got hit with the Puppy Eyes of Doom. “Aww… double _fuck_."

Groaning, he stopped the tape and turned off the TV because he wasn’t ruining a Harrison Ford movie to give Sam answers.

He groaned again, scrubbing his hands over his face, and then took a deep breath. From between his palms he grit out, “Look, this is going to include some nasty truths, so if you want to keep that ‘ideal big brother’ picture in your head, I suggest you drop the subject.”

“Dean, nothing you say is going to change my opinion of you.”

He said that in his ‘caring and sharing’ voice that was so incredibly annoying, Dean wanted to punch him in the nose for it.

“Fine.” Dean sat up straight, turned to completely face his little brother, took Sam’s giant paw in his hand, and looked him dead in the eye. He quietly enjoyed the ensuing panic on Sam’s face, and congratulated himself on turning tables on the Sasquatch. “Sam, I’m pregnant.”

Sam rolled his eyes and snatched his hand away, pushing at Dean’s forehead with it. “Get the hell out of here.”

Dean grinned beatifically, and Sam whined, “I’m _serious._ Talk to me!”

Chuckling incredulously, Dean shook his head and stared at his hands a moment, and said without looking up, “Sam, I’m a gigolo.”

Sam laughed. “Man, when I was joking about you escorting those women around, I didn’t even–“

“No, Sammy,” Dean interrupted, steeling himself and looking up at Sam. “I really am a gigolo. I have been since you were fifteen.”

Stunned, Sam stared at him blankly. He nervously chuckled and stuttered out, “W—why would you even lie about that? I mean, come on…”

Dean shook his head. “Dead serious. Before that I was working a corner, like every other hustler in New York. A guy I know picked me up and showed me how to strut my stuff good enough to make big money.”

He quirked a smile and pointed idly at his face, making a lazy circle with his finger. “All this makes me good money, which is how I’ve been paying for everything.”

Sam blanched and his eyes got huge in his face. “You’re not kidding,” he said flatly, wringing his hands a bit nervously. “You’ve been whoring yourself out to keep us housed and fed.”

“And, more importantly, get you into college.” Dean hmph’d quietly as he considered what a fucking loser he was, staring down at his lap because he was unable to stand the horror on Sam’s face.

“But that wasn’t what you asked, right? You asked who it was?” Dean started chuckling darkly, feeling the self-hatred bloom in his chest, and he shook his head slowly in internal disbelief.

“I met him at a charity event.” He looked up at Sam for confirmation, “You remember? The Liz Taylor thing for AIDS in June?”

Sam frowned and nodded. “I remember…it was a last minute thing. I ended up reading Herodotus. But, Dean, d-did you just say _he_?”

Dean ignored him, steamrolling on because he wasn’t going to be able to do it otherwise. “He, uh, he literally bumped into me at the punch bowl, all blue eyes and ill-fitting tux.” He smiled fondly at the memory. “He looked so out of his element, it was adorable.”

“But, y’know, I was working that night, so I, uh, gave him my business card. Introduced myself as Sage, my business name, and…” Dean paused and realized he had clamped his hands together in his lap, had weaved the fingers into a fierce ball of white knuckles and distant pain. “…five months later… he found out I had never told him. And then he threw me out of his life.”

To Dean’s immense surprise, Sam didn’t say anything to that. He just stared at Dean with commiserating eyes and a wobbly bottom lip. Dean pretended he didn’t see it, and shook his head disbelievingly.

“I don’t know, Sammy. Those… those five months feel kinda like a dream now. He, uh, well… y’see, his wife had _just_ died and I just… I really just never found the timing so, I guess he hates me now.”

At this point, the ache he had been trying to ignore burst into life again, throbbing like it was just yesterday he had climbed into that taxi. Swallowing hard, Dean refused to look at Sam, who was probably looking at him with like, _pity_ , or similar shit. He _didn_ _’t_ need that.

He cleared his throat awkwardly and said in a rush, “I—yeah, I’m going to bed. ‘Night, Sam.”

He ran into his room.

The next morning, they played it the Winchester way: Dean pretended it never happened, and Sam didn’t mention it, but Dean caught him looking at him with sad eyes and just wanted to punch things.

The second Sam left to go back to Stanford, he was lighting up a new bowl.

* * *

 

[i] Garniture set: A set of 2-5 vases, or 2 vases, a matching clock, candelabra, or other pieces.

[ii]  (CHOCH-ka) A small bauble or miscellaneous item. Used by Jewish-Americans and in the regional speech of New York City and elsewhere.

[iii] Famous French restaurant in New York, now closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grief, guilt, fighting, alcohol and drugs as coping mechanisms, mentions of drug use


	7. Angel—Aerosmith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean starts to pull himself out of the hole...or does he?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please click on the "NOTES AT THE END" link to see WARNINGS for this chapter.

# CH 7: [Angel](https://youtu.be/CBTOGVb_cQg)—Aerosmith

### 1988

January passed drearily. The week after Sam left was lonely as hell. The booze and drugs made it worse, and one too many nights waking up passed out in his own piss started to remind Dean a bit too much of his father.

His father had been absolutely right: Dean fucked up everything.

One morning, when he had an unusual moment of clarity, he looked himself in the bathroom mirror. He realized that his scruff had made its way south and was definitely a beard now, and housing bits of hamburger. Lovely. He groaned at his red eyes and sallow skin, scrubbed his head with a nasty unwashed hand, and slowly stripped off the filthy Led Zeppelin t-shirt he had been living in for… well, a while.

In fact, he couldn’t remember when he had last changed clothes.

Feeling grungy, he peeled off his nasty clothes and jumped into the shower.

The water felt good on his skin as he washed away the last week or so of binging on good old whiskey and pot. Dean realized he could see his ribs pretty well, although he looked rather swollen. He washed his hair, nearly moaning with pleasure at the feel of hot water over his greasy head, and felt better than he had in days. Weeks possibly.

For some reason, Dean realized, he was sober. He didn’t even know how that had happened, but he took it as the chance it was, and decided to clean the apartment.

While Sam had been home, it had been easier to clean up, because Sam helped out, but also because Dean fell into his nurturing mode.

Alone now, things had piled up. Like pizza boxes. And empty bottles.

Mostly empty bottles.

Dean sighed as he looked at the mess and the revelation struck him that this was how they had found John’s apartment.

Outside, the wind rattled the windows as snow battered the building. He could hear it whoosh by, a hollow sound like a distant howl. He shivered as he remembered a frozen dead man who had gotten too drunk and totaled his car.

Dean was not going to be like John Winchester. He had fucked up, sure, but he wasn’t going into the ground like a pickled frozen dinner.

There was no way he could do that to Sam. Sammy was not going to bury a brother the same way he buried a father. He couldn’t leave Sam alone, not when he was just starting out, getting his degree and making his way to the good life. Sam needed him.

Living in his moment of clarity, Dean dumped his booze and got rid of the rest of his drugs.

It was time to face reality.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Dean spent the next week and a half holed up, reading and watching movies, ignoring his shakes, feeling nauseated and anxious, fighting his craving for drugs and booze. On his Day of Clarity™, he had managed to get out to the grocery store and even bought a used Nintendo. That led to somehow ending up playing Super Mario Bros., The Legend of Zelda, Zelda II, and Tetris for days at a time, focusing on the small characters than on his misery.

He was a couch potato for the first time in his life, re-watching all his video tapes while curled in a nest of blankets.

He turned down all jobs from Balthazar. The sharp edges of his losses—both Cas and Bal—prodded him like emotional glass shards, invisible and painful. He deserved to lose Cas, but Sam… _Sam_ didn’t deserve to lose Dean. Sam reminded Dean of that every time he called, even volunteering to leave school to be with him.

When he couldn’t sleep at night, when John spoke to him and reminded him of each and every of his faults, he clung to this: Sam needed him.

But Dean was done with hustling. If he lived in his crappy, rent-controlled apartment, he could live at least another five years on his nest egg. At least.

He didn’t need to hustle anymore.

But, at the same time, the future seemed very foggy. He wasn’t sure if it was because he had spent so much of the end of 1987 thinking about how well he would fit into Castiel’s life? Or because he just had no future?

It was a depressing thought.

Before, he had been able to skate by on the earthy distractions of sex, partying, and booze. Now, he couldn’t do it anymore. These things almost seemed to amplify the hurt, make it worse. The worst was late at night when he remembered what kissing someone for hours was like. He missed kissing: the closeness, the taste of Cas, the dizzying feeling of love.

Of course, he had had sex since Cas, but he hadn’t kissed anyone in months now.

Just thinking about it caused a dull ache in his body. He pressed his fingers to his lips absently and closed his eyes. He hadn’t kissed a single person since the day Cas had thrown him out. He had closed himself off again and refused intimacy to others. The starlets, the socialites, the politicians…. All of those people who had literally bought his time and begged for his intimacy were nothing compared to Cas.

Dean missed him. It was a persistent pain that seemed to live behind his heart; it bubbled angrily and would suddenly coat his chest with a dark acidity when he thought about Cas for too long, or focused on how those often-chapped pink lips had felt under his own.

And sometimes—when he least expected it—he _did_ think about Cas. When he had been working, before he had decided to quit, and, in fact, the whole time he was traveling, _he_ would come to mind. It had been especially bad when Dean had been fucking away at someone, feeling them writhe beneath him, panting and moaning under his skilled hands, it had been the recalled _feel_ of Cas against him that kept him hard. It was the phantom of Cas’s lips on his body that allowed him to come for his clients. It was the heat of _love_ that he searched for in their caresses, but never really found.

Apparently, if he tried to forget Cas, if he ignored the persistent wash of memory, he had been noticeably absent from the sex, his hands and mouth doing what they should, but his eyes, people had complained, had been vacant and distant. He had literally been a sex machine, but it hadn’t been even remotely as sexy as the song had made it out to be.

Still, he hadn’t wanted to think about Cas. Even now, he didn’t want to think about what he was missing. That, most of all, he missed sleeping next to the grumpy guy, when he woke up groggy with his sleepy blue eyes and tousled hair. The way Cas pressed himself to Dean’s side, his breath ghosting over Dean’s chest, his arm draped over Dean possessively, so warm and comforting. He wanted to forget!

This was why he finally quit overdoing everything. It hadn’t been Sam coming down on his ass about the booze and drugs. It hadn’t been Bal’s insistent phone calls about what the hell was wrong with him. Nope. It was because he couldn’t tolerate that he couldn’t work, couldn’t even function, _without_ Cas in his mind.

He was done.

So here he was, on his birthday, sitting in his cold apartment in sweats, eating day-old pizza, and wondering if he needed to pull another blanket over himself because it was fucking snowing outside. He was about to get up and shuffle to the extra bedroom to steal Sam’s bedding when his phone rang.

Grumbling, he instead stumbled to the phone, blanket still around him, and answered it with a brusque, “Yeah?”

“Yeah, looking for a Dean Winchester. You him?” It was a woman who sounded like she didn’t want to be on the phone.

Dean blinked as internal alarms went off because he never got calls, and he hesitantly replied, “Yeah.”

“Okay,” the woman sighed, relieved, “Yeah, uh, my name is April Kelly and I’m calling you from Memorial Sloan Kettering…?”

Definite alarms now. Memorial Sloan Kettering was a cancer treatment center, he remembered, trying to stay calm.

He coughed to clear the heart in his throat, licking his lips anxiously, and asked, “Yeah, how can I help you?”

“Well, we have this one patient, Balthazar Richter. He requested we get in contact with you, since he has no other family.”

Dean swallowed hard. She had used Bal’s real name, not his business nom de plume (as Bal referred to it) Medios, so it had to be legit.

In one breath, he asked, “What’s wrong with him? What happened? Is he okay?”

“Sir,” and the consoling tone in her voice made him nauseous. “I think it best if you just come down and find that out from him.”

Hanging in the air there were the words, “While you have time.”

Dean fought down his desire to barf and wheezed out, “Okay.”

He hung up and stared at the phone for a moment, disbelief roiling through him.

“Fuck,” he muttered, gripping his mouth with one hand. “ _Fuck_ ,” he gasped into the cave of his fingers, eye squeezing shut, and biting his lips anxiously. “Just the usual fucking Winchester luck.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

He made it to Sloan Kettering much faster than he thought, considering it was snowing like a bitch, and the cabbie was using the most creative cloud of swearing Dean had ever been privy to, even if it was in three languages.

Memorial Sloan Kettering was a renowned cancer center, and Dean was already fearing the worst. He didn’t _want_ to think about the worst, because he wanted to keep his friend around, even if he was avoiding him. And, well, yeah. Having already dealt with one AIDS slash cancer death—even if it wasn’t directly related to him—was enough for the next fifty years of his life.

Why had Bal been admitted?

He flew through the lobby, checked in, and went to Bal’s floor, ready to find the man half dead already.

But, some things never change.

It should have been no surprise to Dean that—when he finally made it to Balthazar’s room—he was flirting with the nurse. He didn’t blame Bal: the nurse was a petite strawberry blonde with a sweet-looking face and a fine looking body, trying to check Bal’s blood pressure.

The room was pretty average for a hospital room — eggshell white walls, blindingly white sheets and woven blankets, a wall of machines and tubes — although the number of machines and hardware they had Bal hooked up to was impressive. Dean cleared his throat noisily and they both turned to look at him.

“Oh, there’s my precious Pearl,” Bal crooned, waving him over. He looked pale and, because Dean knew him well, stressed. He had lost a few pounds, something not even the ever-present ugly hospital gown could hide, and it didn’t look good on him. Dean had no doubt part of Bal’s plan in flirting with the nurse was to forget his problems. “Come on in! Party at mine! Ha ha!”

The nurse gave him an amused look and patted his leg. “You behave now, you hear me, Mr. Richter?” She checked one of the half-dozen machine surrounding Bal and nodded with approval. “I’m going to pop out and get that water for you, hon. I’ll be right back.”

She smiled at Dean and slipped past him to get through the door. Dean pulled off his gloves, shrugged off his navy blue pea coat, and unwound the extra-long Doctor Who scarf Sam had gotten him for Christmas. He didn’t give a shit that it didn’t match the coat; it was super warm.

Bal watched him with amusement. “Is this what happens when I let you out of my sight? You revert to nerd chic?”

Dean flipped him the bird as he dragged over the plain plastic chair from beside the door. “You’re one to talk. You fucking recognized it.”

He rolled his eyes at Dean. “Darling, of course I did. I spent years in London. You couldn’t find a soul who didn’t watch Doctor Who.”

“Sounds awesome. Totally radical. I gotta move there.” Dean sank into the plastic with a low grunt.

Bal smirked. “You’d hate it. You’re way too American for your own good, Pearl.”

“Yeah, maybe so.” Dean leaned forward and regarded Bal. “So, uh, why the lay up?”

Grimacing, Bal said, “It’s the damnedest thing, you know? One minute, I’m drinking hot cocoa because I can’t seem to get warm, the next Rachel’s crying over me, and there’s a bevy of hot EMTs hovering over me.

“But then, we get to the hospital and, well…” Bal leaned over a bit and said softly, “I was bleeding out my ass. Like, literally!”

Dean frowned. “Did you have someone go in unprepared? That’s not like yo—“

Laughing with dark delight, Bal said, “Ah, no, no. That wasn’t it. Once in my lifetime was quite enough of _that_.”

He slowed his laugh down to hiccup. “It’s rather funny. Here I was, all fussed about STDs and AIDS, and what not, but apparently what’s going to get me is colon cancer.”

“Colon cancer?” Dean frowned, his lips puckering with thought. Did he even know anything about colon cancer? Did people… _die_ …from it?

Sitting back against the bed, Bal nodded and plucked at his woven hospital blanket. “I was at the ER, but when they realized what it was, they moved me here.”

He shrugged. “They said it’s too far gone. It’s already moved to my liver, which I aggravated with my merrymaking.”  Snorting, he griped, “If booze was going to kill me, I would have smoked more and done more recreational drugs.”

“I doubt that would have helped.”

“Gallows humor, you bumpkin,” Bal glared at him, but with no real heat behind it. “Regardless, my prognosis is dire, and to add insult to injury, thanks to AIDS, most of my friends are dead, and my family disowned me eons ago, which leaves me, well… _you_.”

“Gee, thanks for making me feel loved there, Bal.” Dean slouched into his chair, attempting not to sulk and failing.

“Well, Pearl, you pretty much ditched me the last couple of months, after almost _living_ in my brownstone. You left me with Michael, who _only_ escorts; Bartholomew, who only has sex with women; Malachi, who will only be an escort for men and/or be the bottom; and freaking Abner, who cannot keep it together and constantly needs to be monitored, lest he’s left for dead on a pier somewhere.”

“So I was your best money maker?” Dean scoffed. “One of your boys must have made the money I did.”

“You have looks, charisma, and talent. You adjusted to a situation on a dime. Don’t undersell yourself, Pearl.” He cocked his head slightly as he regarded Dean and murmured, “You never did understand why I called you ‘Pearl,’ did you?”

“To irritate me?”

Bal laughed. “Maybe a little,” he said smoothly, running a hand through his hair. “Do you even know how pearls are made?”

Dean shrugged. “I didn’t finish high school. Why would I know that?”

“Dean,” Bal chided, “You’re very intelligent outside of books.”

He shook his head at Dean’s continuing petulant look. “Fine, you bloody child. A pearl is made when a grain of sand or other irritant gets into an oyster’s shell. To protect itself, the oyster starts to add layers of mother-of-pearl to it, until finally, out of one little irritant, a beautiful gem is formed.”

Belligerently, Dean stared at him, waiting for story time to end.

“In other words, considering all the shit that happened with your parents, what happened with your dad, and how you ended up raising your brother, you did very well for yourself.” Bal smiled slightly. “You took all the pain and transmuted it into something beautiful in yourself.”

“Bullshit,” Dean snapped.

“Dean, I’m on my literal death bed. Why would I lie?” Bal replied snidely. “My god, you’re such a child sometimes.”

Dean grunted and heaved himself out of the chair. “Bal, just tell me what you need me to do?”

“Fine. I need you to contact my lawyer. Her name is Naomi Tapping. I have her number in my Rolodex. I also need my pajamas.” He plucked at his hospital gown with disdain. “No way I’m off to the afterworld in a polyester blend.”

Dean chuckled and nodded. “Right. I’ll stop by your house right now.”

For a moment, it seemed that Balthazar curled in on himself somehow, that he was much smaller than his near six feet of height. Dean sucked in a breath and reached out to grip Bal’s forearm.

“What else can I get you to make things easier?”

“Well, I’d say a bottle of cyanide, but I suppose that’s a no-no,” Bal joked, patting Dean’s hand. “I suppose…well…there’s a box of things under my bed. If you could bring them along, I would appreciate it.”

Nodding, Dean replied, “Of course.”

Impulsively, he dropped a kiss on Bal’s head, surprising him. “I didn’t desert you; I was trying to get my shit together.”

Snorting with disbelief, Bal snidely remarked, “Well then no wonder it took months! Bloody Dean Winchester trying to get his shit together! I’m impressed you emerged at all!”

“Ha ha. Fuck you, Bal.”

Bal blew him a kiss.

Shaking his head, Dean collected his coat and scarf, and walked out, loudly saying without looking back, “I’ll be back.”

“You better!”

Once outside the door, he laid his coat over his arm, stopping by the nurses’ station. The pretty young nurse — definitely in a ‘girl-next-door’ sort of way — paused in her charting to look up. “Yes, Mr…Winchester, right?”

Dean grinned winningly at her, leaning forward over the counter’s edge. “That’s right. I recognize that voice: April. Right?”

She smiled up at him. “Bingo. Nice game of who’s who. What can I help you with?”

Dean shifted anxiously and licked his lips. “Um, well, Balthazar won’t tell me much, other than it’s fatal, and it’s moved to his liver.”

He sniffed hard, trying to hold back his distress, and asked, “What’s really going on?”

April’s face immediately changed from friendly to compassionate, and it made Dean feel ill. “I’m going to tell you because Mr. Richter signed all the paperwork to make you his medical custodian, Mr. Winchester. That’s the only reason I’m allowed to say this.”

She took a deep breath and explained, “Sir, Mr. Richter has what’s called Stage 4 colon cancer. It has metastasized into other organs, especially his liver, and his current prognosis is rather grim because it wasn’t caught in time.”

At his uncomprehending face, she said, “Basically, the cancer has spread throughout his body, and there’s no way to stop it.”

Dean started blinking quickly because he could feel the tears coming. He coughed to hide it.

“Uh, I… I see. Okay, so what do I need to do?”

April shrugged. “Keep him comfortable and happy as you can. He’s going to feel more and more disconnected from the world as time passes. Forgive him when he lashes out at you, because it’s not really going to be about you. Just be there for him.” She smiled a sorrowful, benevolent smile that was gut wrenching, and added, “At this point, it may take a month. It may take a week. It’s up to him and God.”

Dean felt the anger bubble up, and he snapped bitterly, “You’re the nurse. You’re a medical professional. You’re trying to tell me that my friend’s life is in _God_ _’s_ hands?” His hand balled up on top of the counter. “God has nothing to do with this equation at all!”

“Mr. Winchester, I didn’t mean—“

“I’m sure you didn’t ‘mean,’ but you still said it.” He scowled at her, unreasonably angry at her, at his powerlessness, and at the situation. “Just… _look_ , I’ve lost a lot of people in my life. Balthazar helped me through some of my darkest times. I need to know what I can do.”

April stood up and covered his trembling fist with her hand. Sincerely, she looked him in the eyes and said, “Be there for him. There’s nothing else left to do.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The next two weeks passed slowly, with February giving them a brief respite from snow and weather in the 50s, only to drop as the month wore on.

Bal was getting weaker, his body fighting to keep going.

It was like watching him lose his shine.

The box he had requested was a shoebox full of old letters and postcards, souvenirs, and photos.

One day, early in the month, Dean walked in and found Bal sitting up in bed, looking over the contents, quietly crying.

When Bal saw Dean, he sniffled and wiped his nose with a tissue. “I’ve become such a girl sitting here all the time, contemplating my mortality.”

Dean pulled the chair up close so he was right next to Bal, and patted his leg. “You’re allowed.”

Bal laughed. He sniffled and showed Dean the picture he had been crying over. It was a grainy photo of the Stonewall Riots, Sylvia Rivera at the forefront, but Bal pointed a finger at a blond teenager behind her with a raised fist.

“That’s me. I was fourteen when this went down.” He laughed wetly. “We had just gotten back from five years in England, and I immediately loved New York and threw myself into it. I wasn’t even old enough to get into the Stonewall Inn, but it was fine. I met a lot of people when I hung out outside. I made a lot of friends who helped me when my parents realized who I was and what I was doing, and kicked me out. I mean, most of us who hung out there were homeless thanks to intolerant parents.”

He sighed and dropped the photo back into the box. He flipped through some other photos that Dean recognized as Fire Island. “And here… most of these guys are dead. In the last five years, I’ve watched most of them be put in the ground.” Another watery smile. “I guess it’ll be my turn next to be planted.” He touched the smiling faces in the photos and nostalgia made his tone sad. “At least I’ll have lots of wonderful men for company.”

Ignoring his own tears, Dean stood up and hugged Bal.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere around mid-February, Dean slipped and mentioned Cas.

At this point, the cancer was making it too hard for Balthazar to move and, to his annoyance, he was confined to his bed. His breathing was labored as the cancer moved north, and had to be aided by a nasal cannula. He complained about his ‘nose tube’ constantly and removed it if left alone.

Dean thought he just liked to be scolded by the nurses.

Bal, though, had lost more weight and was looking painfully thin. He slept most of the time, a shallow sleep that was punctuated by congested wheezing, and Dean understood what Cas had endured when he had been taking care of Amelia.

He smiled sadly, thinking about the blue-eyed man, and started when Balthazar rasped out, “Why so melancholy, Pearl?”

Dean focused his eyes, not realizing he had been daydreaming, and, without thinking, said, “I was missing Cas.”

“Cas?” In his pale face, Bal’s honeyed gold hair and eyebrows looked nearly brown, and they had flown high in surprise. “Who is this Cas?”

Dean felt himself color and muttered, “No one.”

But Bal was hardly stupid and he scowled faintly as he pieced it together. “Wait… did you _dump me_ for someone else?”

Now Dean could feel the heat of embarrassment over the entirety of his face, even his ears. “Dumped is a harsh word, Bal.”

Bal chuckled sardonically, but it made the fan of smile lines at the corner of his eyes come to life and some color seep into his cheeks. “You little bastard. You didn’t just get tired and quit. There was someone else!”

Dean looked away, scowling, and yet somehow relieved that Bal had enough strength to laugh.

“Well, Pearl, do this dying man a favor…tell me your story. You and this… _Cas_ person.”

“His name is Castiel,” Dean mumbled, still refusing to look at Bal, his face aflame.

“Castiel?” Bal repeated, coughing a bit. He wheezed for breath and huffed out. “Better and better. Tell me the story, my darling. I need some entertainment.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was Thursday.

The snow wasn’t as bad today as it had been last week, but it was still miserable cold going. Wrapped in four layers of clothes, with snow sifting onto him and making him wet, Dean stared at the red brick house he had last fled, his heart in his mouth, his pulse feeling as fast as hummingbird’s wings.

He was looking at the shuttered windows with a sort of grim melancholy when he heard a car door open and close behind him. As he turned to look, he heard a soft, bewildered, “Sage?”

As if he had conjured him, Cas was standing in front of him, staring at him. He was bundled under layers of clothes, his wadded winter coat making him look like a snowman with dark brown gloves. He was carrying keys like he had just pulled them from his pocket and they jingled faintly as he closed his hand around them.

His face looked skeletal where it was visible under the lined, brown leather bomber hat he was wearing. His dark hair just peeked out from under the brim, but his blue eyes were too wide in his pale face. His cheekbones looked very sharp, and Dean was shocked to his bones at how much it hurt him to see Cas so damn thin.

Rallying, Dean smiled wanly and said, “Hi Cas.”

Internally, Dean was panicking. That was why he had just been standing in front of the townhouse, terrified to ring the bell, terrified of seeing Cas. But, of course, the Winchester luck…he mentally sighed and tried to stand tall when he wanted to run away.

As he tried to collect himself, Cas frowned, those bright surprised eyes turning stormy as the New York weather, and he snapped, “What are you doing here?”

Trying not to recoil from the anger in Cas’s voice, Dean tucked in his lips anxiously, wetting them with the edge of his tongue, and fidgeting under that glacier-cold expression. “I, uh, I need to ask you a favor.”

“A _favor_?” Cas squinted and canted his head slightly. “You want to ask me a favor?”

Huffing, Dean nodded and steadied his stance, staring straight at Cas. It was a mistake. The tip of Cas’s nose and his cheeks were red with the cold. His lips looked a bit more chapped than usual, and there were snowflakes falling onto his eyelashes, getting trapped and melting quickly. It was uncomfortable because the planes of Cas’s face were all severe angles, even his cleft chin seeming sharper than before.

He was still beautiful.

Dean ducked his head and stared at the sidewalk. 

“I realize it’s an inconvenience and you never wanted to see me again, but I have to ask anyway,” he asserted, bottom lip quivering minutely, and a tiny desperate scowl flashing between his brows. “And it’s technically not for me.”

He hesitated and then wearily pleaded, “Look, it’s for a friend. Please, just hear me out.”

Cas glared at him, his hand audibly clenching around his keys, and then nodded slowly. “Fine. You can come in, but you’re not staying.”

Dean nodded as Cas moved briskly past him to fight with the door locks and push open the door. He walked in without looking to see if Dean was following him, and quickly started to remove his coat to hang it on the wall peg to dry.

Dean stepped in, but stood in the entrance, uncomfortable, as Cas finished unwrapping himself of all his winter gear: hat (that left his overgrown hair smushed into flat rings on his head), gloves, woolen scarf, and finally a fleece jacket and his suit jacket.

Without all the layers, Dean noted with a broken heart that Cas was emaciated, his wrists boney, and his clothes hung a little too loosely. He wanted to wrap Cas in his arms and then feed him, but Cas was glowering at him, the suspicion and defiance in his eyes glowing hotly.

At that, Dean cleared his throat and started, “I have a friend who’s in the hospital. An old friend. He, uh, helped me out, y’know? Got me off the streets and helped me get Sammy into school.”

Under Cas’s intense stare, Dean shifted nervously, scratching at where the melted snow had started to dry at the edges where his scarf touched his neck, and averted his gaze awkwardly. “Last month, on my birthday, actually, he got admitted into Memorial Sloan Kettering. Got diagnosed with Stage 4 colon cancer.”

There was a soft intake of shocked breath, and he risked a brief look at Cas’s expression, relieved that the hard lines had softened a bit.

Encouraged, Dean cast his eyes down again and murmured, “He somehow figured out you were the reason I went AWOL for long periods of time during those months last year, and he…” Dean scratched the back of his neck where his scarf was catching his hair, and huffed out uncomfortably, “Well, he wants to meet you.”

Dean snuck a peek at Cas’s face and wasn’t shocked by the outrage on it. It looked somewhat tempered by compassion, but it was no surprise when Cas tersely asked in a disbelieving voice, “What?”

Dean shut his eyes so he wouldn’t have to watch Cas, how he was starting to glow with indignation. Wouldn’t have to remember how Cas glowed under different circumstances than anger under his hands, his body pliant and open. How he had kissed him and shared his breath…the persistent ache under his heart started to bubble, and breathing suddenly seemed more difficult than it had before.

Gruffly, he got out, “Look, he’s on his deathbed and he wants to meet you. Just… can you talk to him?”

Dean refused to look up. He heard the harsh breath Cas took to steady himself and the muttered, “Why does he want to meet me? Who is he, anyway?”

“Bal is…well, _was_ my agent.” He dared to look and, yep, the disgust on Cas’s face would have shamed a class of nuns. “But he’s always been _more_ than my agent, Cas. He… he picked me up off the street and lent me money that first year to keep me and Sam fed. He helped groom me, and he taught me things I would have never known otherwise.”

Dean risked it and looked into the indignant burning blue eyes, and pleaded, “I’m _begging_ you, Cas. Just meet with him. For a minute. You can leave whenever you want!”

Caustically, Cas gritted out, “And if I do this, are you going to be there?”

“I…” he stumbled for a moment, amazed that Cas was even considering it. His heart swelled with affection, a breaking crescendo that surprised him with its warmth. “I don’t have to be. Give me the time and date, and I’ll make myself scarce.”

Eyeing him, Cas finally nodded and said, “Fine. Tomorrow. I’ll stop by around one.”

Dean nodded back. “Thanks, Cas.” He tried to ignore Cas’s flinch at that, realizing that it was the first time since he had greeted him on the street that he had said his name. Dean handed over the piece of paper he had prepared—just in case—with Bal’s information, and, without his permission, his mouth blurted, “I miss you.”

Cas immediately hardened his expression as he took the paper, his face frosty like either an avenging angel set to smite the unholy, or like the CEO of an incorporated pharmaceutical company he was, used to wielding power.

Losing color, Dean shut up and backed off, glad he hadn’t taken off his coat.

He didn’t look at Cas as he walked out the door. He ignored his brains attempts to make him think about the dark circles and sunken blue eyes, or the thin wrists.

He drank a bottle of bourbon and woke the next day in a pool of vomit, naked on his bathroom floor, his face covered in salt from tears.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Balthazar died on a Tuesday.

In the week and a half that followed Cas’s visit, he never mentioned what he said to Cas, and Dean—being a fucking coward when it came to Cas—didn’t dare ask.

He died at night, when Dean couldn’t be there. He didn’t even know until he arrived at Bal’s room.

Dean walked in with a new set of tapes he had recorded off the radio and some flowers Balthazar always liked, a bunch of blue star aster he had had to special order from a greenhouse further south.

He noticed right away that something was wrong.

The bed was empty.

Stunned he stood there for a moment, when a hand pressed against his back.

“I’m sorry,” said a soft voice, and Dean looked over to find April staring at him sadly. “He went to bed early and slipped away around three a.m. without warning.”

Dean swallowed the lump that had formed in this throat and nodded. It wasn’t as if they hadn’t all known it was coming.

Bal had been able to move less and less, all while sleeping more. Their last conversation—just yesterday night—had been short, because Bal’s breathing had deteriorated fast.

“You…you were…so pretty…Pearl,” Bal had gasped out, his fingers reaching out and grasping Dean’s arm, patting it. He had grinned—a shadow of his former self—and whispered, “Still…are…”

Dean had glared at him, although inside he was smothering a laugh, but Bal’s eyes were shining with humor, and he had chuckled, causing Bal to chuckle along.

“Fuck you, man,” Dean had snorted. Bal knew Dean hated to be called ‘pretty.’ “I’m a stud. You’re just jealous.”

Bal had huffed out a final laugh as it turned into a cough, and Dean had handed him a cup of water when it subsided. Bal, who was only in his 40s, looked like an old man, as the cancer had moved fast through his body and had wrecked him in its wake.

“You’re a good man, Dean Winchester,” he had wheezed out, patting Dean’s arm again. “Thanks for being my friend.”

“Always, buddy. Always.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

They buried him in his nicest suit, a gorgeous Armani number, tailor-made in a deep charcoal gray with a white v-necked t-shirt from Hugo Boss. Not many people made it to the funeral, since Bal hadn’t been lying when he said most of his friends were dead. Dean stood with Rachel, Bal’s assistant, and the five remaining escorts from Bal’s company.

Rachel had been holding the fort while Bal was hospitalized, but most of the other employees had seen which way the wind was blowing and jumped ship. Only the five remaining guys had stuck around to see it to its end.

And, although Rachel had managed to find Balthazar’s parents, they had refused to come. Bal’s father had flatly said his son had been dead for years, and that this was no different before brusquely hanging up on her.

It was no surprise, but it still hurt those who knew Balthazar. How could anyone treat their son like that and still live with themselves? None of them knew, and, even worse, all of them had had similar experiences. It was a low moment at the wake.

They sat in the shitty white room of the brownstone and drank to Balthazar, mourning his loss with good booze, excellent food, and great company, the way he taught them.

“At least _we_ loved him,” Rachel sniffled into her wine.

Dean nodded, mostly drunk. “Family don’t end in blood,” he burped. “Practically my family motto.”

Cheers were made to that, and more stories were told about Balthazar the Great as they drank until they passed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Cancer, grief, Minor Character Death


	8. Walk Unafraid—R.E.M.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With no other choice, Dean starts to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please click on the END NOTES for WARNINGS.

# CH 8: [Walk Unafraid](https://youtu.be/sj84YRn3vcc)– R.E.M.

### 1988

The aftermath of Bal’s death left Dean at a definite loss.  He was forced to accept that this chapter of his life was over, and he wondered what he was going to do next.

Sam was grown up and gone. Bobby was doing well with his wife, Karen’s, family. Bal was dead. Cas didn’t want him.

There was no one who needed a washed-up rentboy with a GED and a give’em-hell attitude. It threw him for a complete loop.

However, things did change, regardless of his stupor.

He had ended up moving into Balthazar’s brownstone in the West Village, because—to Dean’s shock if no one else’s—Bal had left everything to him, including the business and the properties associated with it.

But Dean was definitely done with the escort business, with being a gigolo. After a long phone call with Sam about what was going on, how Balthazar had left him the brownstone, he had made the decision (with Sam’s approval) to move into it. The main reason was just packing up Bal’s stuff.

Bal had loved to buy shit. A lot of shit. He had a storage shed just stuffed full with useless stuff.

Because of the sheer amount of crap, Dean had moved in to try and organize things. Suits, jewelry, personal items that had no meaning to anyone but Bal had to be separated and assessed for value and charity. What could they sell? What could they keep? What could they simply give away?

It had been frustrating just looking at all of it, piles and piles of random electronics, books, and, oddly, dishware. Not so oddly, there had been a disgustingly huge pile of sex toys, including a complete set of whips, a cabinet of flavored lubes and matching condoms, and a small army of blowup dolls.

They had thrown most of the sex toys and blow-up dolls away.

Rachel had wanted the whips. No one had contested it, and no one had asked a thing as she had briskly packed them away and stowed them in her trunk.

It was during this time that Dean had started to notice a trend.

He knew from experience that, when people first die, people crowded around the bereaved. They did it out of curiosity, compassion, grief, or out of love. In fact, Dean had to dissuade Sam from abandoning his mid-terms to come support him. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t alone.

Dean _also_ knew from experience that slowly but surely the crowd would thin as people returned to their lives. The world didn’t stop because someone died, and everyone had ‘work the next morning.’

By the second week of his moving in, the trend was set: the only people who had stuck around were Michael, Rachel, and Dean.

Although Rachel was a trooper, she left to her own apartment every night, but Michael stayed over a lot, for whatever reason. It wasn’t a problem; he had his own room on the other end of the house. He didn’t bother Dean, and he cleaned up after himself. It was odd because, before this, Dean had had little to do with Michael.

Dean knew that Michael hadn’t made as much money escorting as Dean had. Still, with his hazel eyes, dark hair, and chiseled good looks, he was handsome arm candy. He made enough to be popular and stay in the business and that was all that was important.

He had also helped Dean move out of his old apartment, and, from the start, had been helping Rachel and Dean organize Bal’s stuff.

He was a good guy.

So, in the end, he stuck around after Dean ended up selling the business to Crowley, who had gleefully merged it with his Black Dog Agency. Crowley who was quietly building a nice little porn/prostitution business, and always stuck to all his contracts to the letter, had been quite gleeful to get his hands on Bal’s contacts and paid the king’s ransom Dean had demanded. The deal had included the escorts themselves, who had the right to choose to stay with the business or quit.

Michael didn’t like the man, and so he hadn’t gone with the others. He also didn’t leave. He somehow ended up staying with Dean, which was a relief to Sam when Dean explained how he was doing after Bal died.

Considering Sam hadn’t even known Bal was their secret benefactor, he was a bit shocked with all of Dean’s sudden changes.

“But, Dean, why didn’t you ever tell me? I mean… you didn’t have to say he was your…whatever.” Sam glided past the term ‘pimp’ with a stumble, but he made it. Dean was proud. There’s where his money was being spent. “I mean, I didn’t know you two were this close. He left you everything, for fuck’s sake!”

“I’ve known him for years, man,” Dean murmured into the phone, pinching the bridge of his nose and swiping his hand down over his mouth with a sigh. “I guess I was the only one who really stuck around, though.” He laughed through his nose delicately, softly adding, “His big money-maker, apparently.”

Sam released a heavy sigh and asked, “Dean, did you need me there? I can be there by tomorrow…”

“Nah.” Dean smirked. Of course, Sam would try to drop everything to come help out. But it was unnecessary. He and Michael had taken a lot of the stuff to the homeless shelter, which had made Michael give Dean gleaming, admiring glances from under his lashes as they moved shit.

That part had been uncomfortable, so Dean just ignored it.

“Alright, Dean. Just…if you need me, call. I’m here.”

“Yeah, if I need to hear a woman’s voice, I’ll give you a ring,” Dean smirked. “Sam, I can almost feel that bitchface of yours through the phone, man!”

“You’re such a jerk, Dean,” Sam grumbled.

“Yeah, whatever, bitch,” Dean sniped, grinning.

“I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Go on a date, nerd,” Dean cracked as Sam hung up. He kept chuckling as he put the receiver in the cradle, glad Sam was okay.

He missed the giant girl.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was almost the end of March, and Michael was still living with Dean. Dean wasn’t oblivious to the man’s attentions, but he really wasn’t interested. He just wasn’t ready. Hell, he didn’t know if he ever _was_ going to be ready. Cas was special. Dean had never fallen for someone so hard in his life, never been so taken with someone. He couldn’t quit thinking about the man, the soft loving innocence in those cerulean eyes. Dean had never been on the receiving end of that much open affection except from Sam.

Now, Michael was working hard to attract him, and Dean wasn’t interested. Michael was an old pro, too. He wandered around the house in his short running shorts, showing off all his muscles dewed from his morning jog. He came out of the bathroom in just his towel. He leaned into Dean’s personal space a bit too much. It was obvious what he was trying to do.

And Dean ignored all of it.

 One night, while they were sitting in the den watching ‘Empire Strikes Back’ on the projection TV, Dean was taken completely by surprise when he asked Michael for the popcorn and was pushed back into the couch and thoroughly kissed instead.

“I appreciate the thought, but I really wanted the popcorn,” he murmured, blinking up at Michael as he kissed Dean again.

“I could show you more and better appreciation,” Michael grinned as he nipped at Dean’s throat and mouthing his Adam’s apple. “What do you think?”

“I think I really want that popcorn,” Dean replied firmly, pushing Michael off. He was in no mood for shenanigans.  On the screen, Luke was resetting his course for Dagobah, and the Millennium Falcon was not responding to Han, making everyone panic that the hyperdrive was broken.

This was no time for smooching.

Looking hurt at the rejection, Michael sat up and sputtered, “What’s wrong with me that you don’t want me? We’ve been basically living together for a month and you won’t give me a second look!”

Dean internally groaned and rolled his eyes. He turned to look over Michael.

Michael was just shy of six-foot, with gray-green eyes and high cheekbones. He was sculpted, his body muscular and lean, where Dean’s was broad and thick. His dark hair and sharp jaw line were attractive and, really, if it had been last year, he might have given it a shot. Michael was his type, but he wasn’t… well, he wasn’t _Cas_.

Dean swallowed hard. Michael was staring at him expectantly and he didn’t want to _use_ Michael to get over Cas. So he just admitted, “Man, I got dumped last year and I just haven’t gotten over it. I’m sorry. I can’t.”

Michael arched a brow. “So, it’s not that you find me unattractive? It’s just you’re not ready?”

Dean half shrugged and agreed. “Yeah, sure. Let’s go with that.”

He was unprepared for the bright grin Michael gave him, or how he ducked in and dropped a kiss on his lips.

“Fine. I’ll wait. I got kicked out of my old place anyway, and I like living with you. I kinda want to see if we can make this work.”

Michael handed a stunned Dean the popcorn and got up to get some more beer.

As soon as he was out of earshot, Dean groaned again and swiped a hand over his face, covering his mouth as he absently stared at the screen, and then pulling his hand down gruffly with a huff.

“What the fuck just happened?” He asked, while onscreen Han yelled, “Never tell me the odds!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

March had come and gone. April was finally thawing the city a tad, although the air still had a bit of a bite.

Things had settled down a great deal at the brownstone.

Dean was rediscovering who he was without hustling. It did not come easily to him, and he still found himself slipping into that persona of Sage. It was like an old coat, familiar and comfortable, and he still enjoyed the confidence it gave him, but it wasn’t really _Dean_ , so he tried to train himself out of it.

He also kept busy with attending charity events, revealing his ‘stage name’ was Sage to people who had known him before, and cajoling money out of people for AIDS research in the name of The American Foundation for AIDS Research, or amFAR. It was interesting to be able to meet the same people face-to-face that he had as an escort and blow off his previous façade with his new position as a fundraiser and charity representative.

When he met his old clients, he took his cue from them whether they wanted to be recognized or not. If they greeted him warmly (like the Gallagher twins), he took them aside and played catch up. If they chose not to acknowledge him, he pretended not to know them. Discretion was the name of the game.

But when he ran into Senator Adler and his assistant, Meg, he grinned like a shark. Adler had stared at him with something approaching horror before containing himself and pretending he had no idea who Dean was. It was entertaining to watch the sweat bead on the bald man’s scalp.

Meg, he ignored on principle. The bitch. He knew she was the one who told Gabriel the truth. Just knew it.

On his own time, he attended a few ACT UP! meetings, but didn’t care for the rhetoric. They were a bit too out of control for his tastes, and that wasn’t good when he was trying to get in the good graces with enough people to make changes from the inside the system.

As it turned out, it was just as well he distanced himself, when on the 24th, the group demonstrated on Wall Street and over a hundred people were arrested

He helped pay into the bail money, but resigned his membership.

He was getting notice as an advocate for AIDS research. It was becoming rewarding to be able to support the cause and speak out, but he didn’t want trouble anymore. He just wanted people to live.

In Bal’s absence, he had also started attending funerals for AIDS victims again, and that still made for a pretty full schedule. It felt like he was growing numb to death.

He was tired of it. He wanted to help bring change whether the Reagan Administration wanted it or not.

~*~*~*~*~*~

One night, while returning from a charity event, he found a young woman with two kids huddled next to her in the lee of the hotel the event had been hosted at, at the mouth of the alleyway to the back of the building. The April night air was still cold this year, especially at one in the morning, so Dean was wearing a nice overcoat, scarf, and gloves.

The kids, only around two-years old, were in worn shirts, a thin blanket covering them, and crying. When their mother, a Latina with beautiful liquid brown eyes, saw him approach, she tried to hush them.

“I’m so sorry. I…I’m trying to quiet them down. They…” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

Dean crouched down, not minding his clothes, and looked at the crying kids, remembering when Sam was that little. They had been living out of the Impala when Sam was two. The boys were shivering hard, curled inside their mom’s thin coat for warmth.

He smiled at them and pulled some cookies wrapped in a paper napkin out of his pocket, holding them out to the kids. He had never quite gotten out of the habit of taking free food when he saw it. Times like these, it was a blessing.

The kids looked at their mother, who was watching Dean carefully.

“I have a kid brother,” he said softly, pushing the cookies at them again. “We were in trouble lots of times. Wouldn’t be where we are now without the help of others.”

The woman stared at him, examining his expression, and with a soft phrase in Spanish, the boys reached out and took the cookies, cramming them gratefully into their mouths. Dean smiled at them.

Looking at the boys, he came to a conclusion. He pursed his lips, started to ask, stopped, and tried again, clearing his throat.

“Um, you have no reason to trust me, except… I want to help you.” He pointed at the kids. “And especially the kids.”

She stared at him, her long lashes trembling with unshed tears, her body shivering from the cold. She was wearing day clothes, a t-shirt, jeans, her thin coat, and not much else. Her face was round, with a fine nose and huge eyes, which was hard to see because of the bruises along her jaw that crawled up and near her left eye, and even a fine collection of visible fingerprints around her neck.

Dean narrowed his gaze on her throat, and she flinched from his sight.

Obviously she had run from a bad situation in the middle of the night with the children. The boys weren’t even wearing shoes and they looked like they had pajama tops over their diapers. He sighed, leaving a faint plume of breath. “Y’know, it’s cold out. If you can trust me, I can give you three a place for the night.”

Dean held out his hand, shaking it insistently at her when she stared disbelievingly at him, and said, “C’mon. We’ll get you some food and, like I said, a place to stay for at least tonight. I won’t call the cops or whatever.”

He regarded her seriously and said, “Hey, look at my face. Am I lying?”

She stared a bit more and shook her head.

He grinned and said, “My name is Dean Winchester. What’s yours?”

“Ava… Ava Alvarez.” She clutched her sons to her. “This one here is Uriel.” She hugged the one of the right tightly, and he mewled. “And this one is Raphael.”

Dean held out his hand to each and they dutifully shook it. He grinned. “Cool. Now, let’s get you home so you can warm up!”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Ava and her two sons were actually a small godsend to Dean and Michael because they were getting busier as their careers took off, Dean with his charity work and Michael with his modeling. (He had tried to convince Dean to also try modeling, but Dean was completely uninterested.)

The Alvarezes moved into one of the guest bedrooms, eyes huge in their faces, mouths gaping, and completely overwhelmed by the brownstone. But they gratefully bathed and slept in borrowed t-shirts, thankful for the bed and bath.

The next morning, they emerged to find Dean had cooked them a meal, Michael having left for his early morning job at a small photoshoot. While the boys gleefully ate bacon and pancakes with both hands, Dean sat down with two mugs of coffee, putting one in front of a scowling Ava, drowning in one of his t-shirts while the family’s clothes washed.

“So…How long did you put up with this?” He asked, one hand holding his cup of life, the other tipping her head with one finger to look at her throat. The finger-sized bruises were livid against her skin, and the dark purple bruise on her jaw didn’t quite hide the yellow and green of healing bruises underneath it.

She slapped at his hand and snapped, “Just because you’re gay, it doesn’t mean you can put your hands on me.”

He lifted his hand in surrender. “Okay, I get it!” But he could help but snort as he reached for his toast and smirked, “But I’m not gay. Neither is Michael.”

Ava snorted into her cup as she sipped the hot beverage. “So you share a bedroom as ‘friends,’ I suppose?”

Dean grinned, amused by her straightforwardness. “Well, not that it matters, but both of us also like girls.”

She shrank from him at the admission, terror in her eyes, and he shook his head, “Ah, for cryin’ out loud, why would I bring you _and_ your sons here if I were planning something crappy?”

Ava didn’t reply. She just tightened her lips into a line and stared at him, tension in her face and shoulders, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Dean rolled his eyes and reached into his pants’ pocket, pulling out a set of keys. “All right, well, I didn’t want to just spring it on you, but you look like you want to run for your life, and I’d hate to see that.” He jingled the keys between his fingers. “I mean, you need a place to stay until you get on your feet, and I need someone to watch this place I got in Alphabet City.”

Surprise flitted over her face, her gaze going to the keys before darting back up to his expression, trying to read him. He put the keys on the table and pushed them towards her. “I’ll tell you now, it’s not the best neighborhood, but it’s paid up ‘til the end of the month, it’s furnished, and it’ll give you time to figure out what to do.”

“Why are you doing this?” She blurted suddenly, tears welling and spilling over.

The boys stopped eating and stared at their crying mother. Two sets of accusatory eyes turned on Dean, and he smiled at them. “She’s just surprised, guys. She’s okay.”

They didn’t believe him until Ava hoarsely whispered something to them in Spanish, and they nodded, going back to their food.

She cleared her throat, and Dean watched her pull herself together with the shreds of her dignity. “I can’t take this. It’s too much. You don’t even know me.”

He hummed wonderingly at that. Women like Ava were sadly not rare.

“Look, I’m guessing you have nowhere to go, since it was one in the morning and you were sitting in an alleyway with two freezing kids and nothing but a blanket.” He flicked the keys with a finger. “This is just a… what’s it… stop gap until you get your feet under you.”

Dean smiled kindly, hoping she’d just accept. He added, “If not for yourself, for your boys.” His eyes shifted over to them, while something distant and sad curled in his smile as watched them laughing, now covered in syrup and pancake crumbles.

“Boys shouldn’t be out on the street without a home.” He turned his gaze on her, that same smile on his face. “At least they’ve got their mother.”

Something got through to her, something she seemed to find in his expression, and she nodded faintly, short brown fingers reaching out and grasping the keys. “Thank you,” she said softly. “I—I’ll repay you someday.”

He grinned wide and chuckled. “Actually, there are two things I’m gonna ask you for.”

Her eyes narrowed and her face screamed ‘I _knew_ it.’

He waved down her hostility. “Nah, the two conditions are sort of simple.” He leaned forward and grasped her hand, squeezing slightly and ignoring her discomfort. Seriously, he said, “You cannot go back to him. **Ever**. I will help you because of the boys, but if they are put in danger I will call Protective Services.”

Ava colored and her chin went up again. “I will _never_ go back to that _pinche cabrón_ ,” she replied solemnly, her bottom lip trembling. “I will make a better life for my children.”

He nodded, taking back his hand. “If you need help keeping him away, you can ask me. I’ll help you.”

He then looked into his cup, cleared his throat awkwardly, and murmured, “I know a thing or two about abusive dads.” Dean forced himself to lift his chin and look at her. “Do it for them.”

Surprised, she nodded. “You said more than one condition..?”

“Do you have a job to support yourself?”

Ava bit her trembling lip. “I…I can’t…” Squaring her shoulders, she said, “He knows where I work. I cannot go back. He’ll find me.”

She grimaced as she added, “Even worse, the guys there will report me to him.” Shaking her head she muttered, “It’s better if I don’t go back there.”

“Would…uh, we could use some help here.” He shrugged. “Well, _I_ could. This place is bigger than I’m used to taking care of and I have a lot of responsibilities right now. I’m gone a lot.”

“Housekeeping?”

Dean blinked at her incredulous tone. “If…if that’s okay? I mean, not just cleaning the place, but helping me out with my schedule and stuff.”

She stared at him. He blushed and scratched his cheek absently. “My, uh, last one left me for better horizons. She got a position at some fancy business, so I’ve been left sort of…shorthanded.”

That was putting it mildly. With Dean floundering, Rachel had decided to move on and up. She had gotten an executive administrative assistant’s position at Roman Enterprises, and hadn’t looked back.

Ava took a deep breath and released it in a long huff. “Sure.” She shook the hand he extended. “What have I got to lose?”

She blinked as Dean jumped up and pumped his arm. “Awesome! Now I don’t have to take my laundry to the dry cleaners!”

He grinned. “I’ll take you over to Alphabet City in a bit.” Eyeing her clothes, he added, “And maybe take you the Macy’s or something for clothes for you all.”

This, he thought, is a move in the right direction. Saving people felt good. Like a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

He felt better than he had in a long time.

~*~*~*~*~*~

If things in his life were looking up, things with Michael were… in progress.

Michael was persistent, and, even if they were sharing a bed, they didn’t share much more.

And Michael didn’t just want more; he wanted it all.

Despite his attempts, his cajoling, his seductions, Dean refused to date or have sex with him.

He just couldn’t do it.

His heart wouldn’t let him.

At first, when Michael had kissed him, he had frozen. And when Michael had touched him somewhere intimate, it hadn’t been the _right_ touch and his body had broken out into goosebumps. Admittedly, after he quit working for Balthazar, he had stopped having random sex, and now his body didn’t want just anyone.

It wanted Cas.

Even worse, because they were living together, and even sharing a bed (because Dean had nightmares and it was just easier for Michael to be right there), Michael seemed to be falling even harder for him.

This was despite the nights Dean tried to explain things to him.

“I love him. I can’t…I’m just not…” Dean threw himself back against the couch, ignoring how close Michael was sitting to him, and groaned. “Look, I know it’s been almost a year, but… Cas is still… everything to me. I can’t just let him go.”

“He let _you_ go.”

The statement stung, especially in the hard, petulant voice Michael liked to use when they discussed Cas.

“Yeah, well… it was a hard time for him. And I, well, I just made it worse for the poor guy.”

Michael hummed. “You can’t keep blaming yourself, Dean.”

Dean rubbed over his heart with stiff fingers, the dark ache that lived there bubbling violently with the conversation. “Sure I can,” he mumbled. “It’s the Winchester legacy.”

Sometimes these conversations were just preludes to fights, where Michael wanted more and didn’t want to take no as an answer. Those were the days Dean would end up pinned against the wall, Michael slotting their legs, both of them breathing hard and getting nowhere.

“I said NO. I mean NO.”

Michael nuzzled Dean’s neck, nipped at the skin there. “You can just relieve yourself with me,” he murmured against the sensitive skin behind Dean’s ear. “Just let me touch you…”

Shoving at him, Dean growled, “No! Now get the fuck off me, Mike!”

Those were the nights Michael stayed at Gadreel’s house.

Dean cared because he liked Michael, but not enough to give him what he wanted.

He didn’t care if Cas was never going to come back to him. He couldn’t do it anymore.

Mindless sex no longer worked.

~*~*~*~*~*~

In very late April, while out trying to find Sam a birthday gift, Dean ran into Anna Milton. He hadn’t seen the budding young starlet in almost a year, and, if possible, she was even more beautiful than before. Her year as a working actress had matured her and given her a poise she had been lacking.

Dean had been stepping out of a used bookstore when he heard someone say, “Sage?” in a surprised voice. Dean shifted the huge tome he had purchased, a nice bound collection of Sir Thomas More, and turned to find her standing there with a carry-away cup of coffee and a newspaper under her arm.

She was looking quite fine, in an oversized dark red sweater over her acid-washed jeans and half-boots. Her hair was in a side-ponytail with large fluffy bangs, and her lovely eyes were bright with brown eyeliner and what looked like blue mascara.

She grinned at him and walked over to one-arm  hug him, dropping a kiss on his cheek. “How _are_ you?” She asked, patting his shoulder fondly.

Dean smiled back. “I’m okay.  Just, uh, shopping for my little brother.”

He showed her the package and uneasily grinned.

“How are you?” He asked.

She nodded, while her lips tucked into a quietly happy smile that pooled in her dimples. “I’m okay, too. Things are looking up.”

She grinned big and flapped a hand at him. “I didn’t have to go home to Connecticut!”

“Awesome!” He congratulated her, and they laughed, settling into their old pattern of joking with each other. Anna was always easy like that; he had forgotten in the sludge his life had been.

They chatted for a bit before Anna’s boyfriend, Zeke, showed up and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist. Zeke was pretty tall, at least Dean’s height, with light gray eyes and bleach blond hair. Those gray eyes stared at him suspiciously, hard as topaz, as Dean smiled easily at back at him.

His time with Anna was long over with. They both knew it and were more than okay with it.

Perhaps, he thought, this is the beginning of a friendship, though. He was glad she had found someone.

As if reading his mind, Anna grinned at Dean and patted Zeke’s arm fondly. “As you can see, I’m doing okay.”

Dean smiled, relieved she was well, and truthfully admitted, “I’m glad you’re doing well. I heard you were on some soap opera, and I was happy to hear it.”

“Yeah, got my lucky break soon after you took off to parts unknown!”

Startled, Dean blushed and stared at the ground, licking his lips.

“Um, a lot of things were going on,” he said finally, lifting his gaze to see both Zeke and Anna were staring at him with concern. It made Dean wonder what his expression was, to get that sort of response?

And then he decided he _really_ didn’t need to know.

To his surprise, Anna broke free of Zeke’s arms around her waist and hugged Dean tightly. “I don’t know what happened to you that makes you look so sad, but, please. Be happy.” She whispered in his ear.

Quirking a smile, he hugged her back and whispered into her hair, “Backatcha.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

May descended on them, bringing more spring with it, and wonderful bursts of warmer air.

Dean had finally given into some of Michael’s demands, and they were sort of a couple. But Dean refused to go any further than frotting, and Michael had learned to just accept it.

Once they started with the physical intimacy, however, he refused to kiss Michael on the mouth. He accepted Michael because Michael was, actually, quite good for him. He was kind and considerate. He was more active than Dean, dragging him out to exercise once in a while. Michael was a good guy.

And Dean finally wanted to get over Cas.

Michael accepted Dean’s emotional hang-ups. He knew what he was getting with Dean. Dean had told him upfront that he was not emotionally available yet, conceding that perhaps being physical could be a way to start, but there were no promises that it would lead to something more than a rebound relationship. Still, if Michael still wanted to try..?

And he did. Michael wanted to try something awful.

So they did.

And it worked. It had been working. They worked well together, with both of them on odd schedules of super busy periods and then nothing for a while. When the nothing overlapped, they enjoyed themselves with movies and events. They visited Fire Island and even went to the Caribbean for a brief holiday.

What neither of them expected was for Dean to open the door to the brownstone one July afternoon and find Castiel standing on the stoop, eyes wide with surprise.

He stopped moving and stared at Cas.

Cas was beautiful. In the sunlight, his eyes were the shade of blue star aster, the dark circles beneath them gone. His face was slightly rounded again and no longer gaunt. He was even slightly tanned and overall he looked like he had put on ten or fifteen pounds. His dark hair was a bit wild, cut shorter than Dean had ever seen it, but it still brushed over his forehead in wispy curls. His lips were chapped, and he licked them nervously, and, just for a moment, it was like they had never been apart: Dean felt that desire to trace the pale pink lines of Cas’s mouth that _badly_ , just that _deeply_.

Then, a warm hand skittered over his waist and Dean distantly heard Michael ask, “Hey, why are you standing in the door? Are you waiting for me?”

The door was pulled open wider and, like a bad dream, Michael was standing behind him.

Dean was unable to look away from Cas, but he heard Michael suck in his breath with recognition, and saw Cas’s eyes shift to Michael and widen a touch more with alarm.

It was just a moment, and then hurt flashed over his face. He paled beneath his tan, his gaze flicking over to Dean’s, as he stuttered, “I—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean…”

He backpedaled and stumbled over his own feet, nearly careening into a passing couple, who swore at him and threw a middle-finger at his disappearing back.

In shock, Dean just watched as Cas turned and fled.

Dean heard Michael swallowed audibly and then felt a shove to his back so strong he nearly tumbled down the steps. “Follow him, you moron!”

Dean threw him a grateful look, seeing the resignation and sadness in the lines of Michael’s face, but accepting his small nod and tiny encouraging smile, his hand wave pushing Dean to follow Cas. Dean felt regret for a moment, sad that he couldn't give Michael what he deserved, mouthing, “Thanks,” as he booked down the steps after Cas.

He bolted down the street, calling out, “Cas! Castiel! Where are you!?”

He paused and looked for signs, asking a homeless man who was hiding in the shade of a building, “Have you seen a man? Dark hair? Hauling ass?”

The man nodded and pointed down the alleyway. Dean started to run, paused, huffed, and pulled a ten out of his wallet, handing it to the guy before running off.

But, as it turned out, Cas hadn’t gone too far.

The alley he had ducked into was a dead end, and Dean found him crouched down in the corner, hands over his head.

Breathing more heavily than he wanted to admit (he really needed to start taking his exercise regime seriously), Dean gave himself a moment to catch his breath, and propped himself on his knees.

“Holy fuck, Cas! Why’d you run?”

Cas didn’t respond and, as soon as he knew he had his breathing under some sort of reasonable control, Dean crouched down to his level. Cas had tucked his head between his knees, which were curled up to his chest. His entire body was visibly shaking, and Dean caught himself before he just reached out to scoop the man into his arms.

“Hey, Cas…?” He touched Cas’s shoulder and was mentally unprepared for how much it hurt him that Cas shied away from his hand.

He sighed and tried again. “Cas, c’mon. Talk to me. That’s why you came looking for me, right?”

From the ball of trembling man, came the blurted admission, “I wanted to see you.”

Dean peered at him, trying to get Cas to look at him, but Cas had his eyes squeezed shut and he refused to look. Huffing, Dean asked, “Why’d you want to see me Cas?”

He got no answer. Cas refused to look at him. The ache under his heart throbbed violently, spreading out tendrils of pain, and he ignored that what triggered it was the hope that had speared him the moment he had seen Cas standing in front of his door.

Biting his bottom lip, Dean reached out his own trembling, hopeful fingers. He touched Cas’s face gently and turned it to face him.

“C’mon,” he cajoled. “Look at me.”

Two bright blue eyes snapped open, pain and despair evident in their depths.

“I can’t,” he whispered, shutting them again. “You’re like the sun. Too bright. I can’t look at you.”

Dean chuckled, remembering how Cas had looked star-struck at their first meeting, and took one of Cas’s hands, kneading the joints and palm. “You used to look at me plenty. C’mon, why are you here?”

Cas shook his head violently, trying to get away from Dean, but Dean held him firmly. “Castiel,” he said lowly, kissing his beloved’s hands. “C’mon Cas, talk to me. I want to hear your voice.”

At that, Cas slowly opened his eyes again, his hands tightening in Dean’s, and he whimpered hoarsely, “I’m too late, aren’t I? I’ve lost you. You already have a new lover.”

Somewhat taken aback, Dean blinked at him. “Cas, I don’t know what you want from me. It’s been months since I’ve seen you.” He quirked a smile. “You look good, by the way.”

Cas blew out a long breath, shuddering as he explained. “Gabriel made me go to counseling earlier this year. Sent me to a specialty center in Florida for eating disorders. I guess I had developed anorexia, somehow.” He shrugged faintly. “It snuck up on me. I just… I don’t know, needed _something_ I could control since everything around me was out of control.”

Dean nodded. “I understand, Cas.” Pausing to think of how to explain his situation, he just blurted, “I’m not in love with him.”

Blue eyes stared guilelessly at him, and Dean swallowed hard. “Michael. He’s… well, I guess he’s my boyfriend…”

It was as if Cas was trying to kill him without any weapon but those blue eyes. Renewed shock made them widen, and Dean watched the nervous jump of Cas’s Adam’s apple. The fingers gripping his were nearly painful and Dean added, “But he knows I’m not in love with him.” He licked his lips again. “I never was and he knew it.”

The hope in Cas’s eyes was dazzling, the color finally returning to his face.

Meanwhile, Dean’s knees were bitching at him that they were getting old and were not happy with crouching for this long. “Uh, can we stand up? My knees are hating me…”

Cas blinked at him, those beautiful beloved eyes back to being perfectly blue and clear. He nodded and Dean stood with a low groan, stretching out his back and knees, and holding out his hand for Cas. Cas took it, slipping his palm into Dean’s, and Dean tried hard not to notice how it perfectly fit.

He looked out of the alley and tried to figure out where they were. They were actually really close to Ellen’s pie shop. The shop he had promised to take Cas what felt like a lifetime ago.

“Remember I told you about that pie shop near my friend’s place?” He asked, jerking his head towards the street and squeezing Cas’s hand comfortingly. “C’mon, let’s get some pie.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

The Roadhouse was a tiny hole-in-the-wall bakery with some of the best pie that Dean had ever had. The front of the bakery was set up like a French bakery, with most of the newly baked goods available in baskets behind the counter. There was a glass case in the front, however, filled with pies, cakes, and other pastries. The dark wood interior and moderate lighting made the tiny bank of booths seem more private than they were.

He and Cas took a seat in the back, sliding into opposite sides of the booth. There was only one other person in the café, and that was Max, who said he was a poet, but really liked to flirt with the bakery owner’s daughter, Jo.

As they got settled into the booth, Jo stepped out from behind the half door to the back area to take their order.

Jo’s long hair was tied back in a simple ponytail, and she wore ripped acid-wash jeans with two red bandanas tied around her thigh. She dared Dean with her eyes to say anything about the Poison band t-shirt that she had torn the sleeves and collar off of, and ripped it so she could tie it at her midriff.  She knew he didn’t approve of them.

“Well, if it isn’t Dean!” Two darkly penciled, heavily mascaraed eyes looked him and his friend up and down, a slight frown settling between her suspiciously narrowed eyes.

“And friend,” she added, her gaze taking in Cas.

“Hey, Jo. Where’s your mom?”

Jo smirked and jerked her head towards the back. “She’s back there doing the books or something.” She blanked her face and said flatly, “I don’t know exactly what and I really don’t give a shit.”

Dean shook his head. “Kid, you can’t talk to customers like that. Bad for business.”

She mimicked what he said and shook her head minutely and making a horrible face, her tongue half out. “Blah blah blah, old man,” she jeered. “Just tell me what you want.”

He rolled his eyes and glanced apologetically at Cas, who cocked his head slightly, looking befuddled.

Dean almost jumped over the table to hug him for not changing. As he contemplated it, he and Cas must’ve been intensely staring at each other, because Jo muttered, “Any day now, Dean.”

He started, remembering they had an audience, and he could hear Max on the other side of the room snickering.

“Um, I’ll have the cherry pie and he’ll have the pecan,” Dean ordered. “Also two coffees, one black, one with cream.”

Despite her hard exterior, Jo still blushed when Dean beamed at her, and she mumbled, “Okay, have it right out.”

She walked away, furtively looking behind her to see if they were watching her, coloring when she realized they were. She ducked into the back with a last stuck-out tongue directed at Dean.

Cas watched their interaction and observed, “She’s got a crush on you.”

Dean shrugged. “She’s sixteen. She’ll have a lot of crushes in her life.”

They sat silently until the food and coffee came, and then Dean ventured to break the ice. “So you’re okay?”

Cas picked at his pie, but took a tiny bite. Swallowing, he replied, “After I kicked you out, I guess I got really bad. Gabriel said I turned into a robot and an ice princess, and he started sitting with me at big meetings because, in his words, I was acting like a little bitch.”

Dean wanted to laugh, especially since Cas had put air quotes around the words ‘little bitch,’ but held it in. “That sounds tough,” he managed.

Cas nodded, his fork taking the pie apart on the plate. “So when I admitted I had a problem with food that, I guess, got worse after our altercation… Gabriel was relieved.” He poked at the pie. “It was after I spoke to your friend, Balthazar. He…gave me things I needed to think over.”

“Oh.” Dean shoveled food in his mouth. Although the cherry pie was a thing of beauty, it tasted a bit like ash in his mouth. He was 99% sure he didn’t want to know.

Cas continued.

“Your friend Balthazar was quite a character.” He chuckled. “He hit on me, although he was unable to really move and on his death bed.” Cas paused and stabbed a pecan. “He asked if I wanted to give him one last thrill before he gave up the ghost.”

Cas colored prettily and Dean had to laugh.

“Yeah, sounds like him,” he said fondly, poking at an errant cherry.

Cas took a bite of the pecan pie and carefully chewed before swallowing it. It looked like he was deliberately counting, but what came out of his mouth was, “This is indeed some very good pie.”

He poked the filling and murmured, “I guess he wanted me to understand you better. To understand why you didn't tell me the truth." Cas licked his lips and barreled on. "He told me about your mom dying in that house fire. How your dad blamed you.” Blue eyes were suddenly fixated on his, and sadness radiated off Cas in waves.

Dean felt his body freeze up again, and wondered how many times in one day could Cas surprised him.

Flatly, Cas continued. “He also said how your dad took you on the road, traveling around to isolate you two from anyone that could help, and used to abuse you and Sam until he killed himself when you were twelve.”

He sipped coffee and barreled on. “He also mentioned that you had been sent to live with your Uncle Bobby who was a cop here, until he retired to somewhere in the Midwest because his wife had had property out there. That your uncle left you and Sam here because you were old enough to take care of Sam.”

Blue eyes peered at him sadly again. “He said you dropped out of high school and were working part-time jobs, but wasn’t enough to get by, and you turned to prostitution.”

Cas swallowed hard, looking away from Dean.  “You were lucky you didn’t get killed.”

“Well, it was a close call once or twice,” Dean joked blithely. “Not much more I could do at my age and with no education.” He cut another piece of pie with his fork and shoveled it in. “Not even the prospect of an education,” he said around the pie. Swallowing, he shrugged. “I got my GED eventually. So there’s that, at least.”

Cas shook his head. “You deserved better,” he murmured, idly poking the pie.

“Did I?” Dean didn’t actually know that he did. He sat up a bit and leaned forward. “Cas, I might not have had a big fancy education like you, but I learned things. I went places. I’ve been around the world a few times, and I didn’t pay a dime to do it. I’ve seen more of the Louvre than most people ever will in their lives. I puked in the Seine,” he grinned at the last. “Not everyone can say that.”

“You’re incorrigible,” Cas chuckled. He stopped moving and shut his mouth, uncomfortable, before leaning forward to select a piece of his picked apart pie. “I missed this,” he admitted lowly, shoveling a piece in his mouth.

Dean quirked a smile. “Yeah, well, I did too.”

They sat in silence again, while picking at their food, until Cas broke the silence with, “When I went to see your friend, I… didn’t expect him to tell me your life story.” He flicked his gaze up to Dean, his shoulders tense, and said, “You never told me any of that.”

Dean shrugged. “Bal wanted to know everything before he would help me, so I told him. But I told that son of a bitch to keep it to himself.”

This time, Cas shrugged. “We don’t always get what we want.”

Feeling brave from the lack of judgment in Cas’s voice, Dean reached out and touched Cas’s forearm. “Oh, I dunno. You tell me.” He smiled softly. “Because Cas, this whole time, all I’ve wanted was you.”

Dean wasn’t sure what he had been expecting from Cas. Something. After all, the man had shown up on his doorstep and had been devastated by the thought Dean had moved on. The hope that had pierced him fluttered sluggishly in time with his heart.

He nervously watched as Cas put down his fork and shoved his plate aside, only to reach out and grab Dean’s hand between his own. “Can we start over? Please? I don’t know who I am without you.”

“Cas, that’s all I ever wanted,” he replied softly. “A real chance with you.”

Cas fidgeted, his thumb rubbing over Dean’s wrist as he murmured. “We’re still going to go slow. I’m not just falling back into bed with you.”

Dean reached out and rubbed his hand over Cas’s, hope flourishing for the first time in a long time. “I’m okay with that. Can… can we start over? From the beginning?”

A small smile etched into the corners of his mouth and crinkling the edges of his eyes as Cas nodded. It seemed hope wasn’t just blossoming in Dean’s chest, Cas’s expression was anything to go by.

Dean nodded and, pulling back his hand, he grinned winningly, and stuck it back out for Cas to shake. “Dean Winchester. Charity activist for AIDS Research.”

Cas smiled back and took Dean’s hand, shaking it firmly. “James Castiel St. Clare. CEO for Clarewell Pharmaceuticals. Please call me Cas.”

They grinned at each other, until Dean felt the tensions he’d been holding for what felt like forever start to loosen. Unable to help himself, he teared up and swiped at his face with his free hand. “Oh god, Cas. I missed you,” he sobbed. “I missed you so much.”

Cas kissed his hand, glowing with happiness. “I missed you too…” he paused, and smiled slightly, saying, “… _Dean_. Let’s start over, take it slow. I promise you won’t regret it.”

Dean gave him a watery grin. “As long as I have you, I never would.”

They laughed as they both realized they were crying in public, something Dean would never have done before. He was just glad Sam wasn’t there to see him.

There was a small _click_ and _whizz_ , and they both turned to find Jo standing there with a Polaroid camera, shaking the picture.

She grinned nastily, her eyes suspiciously red and bright, and said, “I can’t wait to show Sam.”

Dean was so happy he almost didn’t care. _Almost._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mentions of domestic abuse. Mentions of child abuse. Mentions of Anorexia. Pie.
> 
> Silly note: I knew a guy from Mexico City by the name of Uriel. And lots of Latinos named Raphael. So that's why it ended up that way.
> 
> A/N: I'm sure some of you might be thinking the Ava bit seems bogus. Who does that? Give housing to random people? TBH - my parents. My parents (especially my father) HATE(D) to see children suffering, and one time actually brought home a small family with a single mother and let them stay with us until they were back on their feet.


	9. EPILOGUE: Waiting for Love -- AviCii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A very sappy ending. Thank you for coming with me on this journey. 
> 
> The world changes. Dean reminiscences. Life is good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is possibly the sappiest ending I have ever written because this is THE saddest fic I've ever written. 
> 
> Nothing hurts in this chapter. All is well. Go in peace my children.

# EPILOGUE: [Waiting for Love](https://youtu.be/-ncIVUXZla8)– AviCii

### JUNE 2015

It was an epic event that rocked and polarized the nation.

On June 26th, Dean and Cas had invited dozens of their friends for a party as they waited for the news.

They held hands and their breath as the decision filtered down. When the verdict was announced that states could not ban same-sex marriages, no one could believe it! Finally, gay marriage was legal in all 50 States! Much like Stonewall, a new watershed had been reached. People cried and hugged each other, a battle for recognition feeling over, even if they knew it was not the whole war. There was still so much more to be done, but it was a big step!

Dean Winchester, self-proclaimed captain of the “Red-Ribbon Brigade”— _his_ organization dedicated to helping those suffering from AIDS, their families, and reaching out to dispossessed gay youth—threw up his hands and shouted with joy along with his friends and family. Finally!

He jolted slightly from the slap on the back Sam dealt him, hollering a bit with (not that he’d admit it, but not so fake) pain as other joined in smacking him, and hugging him.

He turned to the love of his life, who was being smothered by Dean’s moose of a brother, and opened his arms. Easily, Cas evaded the others and slipped into Dean’s embrace. They had a moment of just joyously staring at each other, green and blue just absorbed in each other, until Gabriel screamed, “STOP EYE-FUCKING! TWENTY DAMN YEARS AND THEY’RE STILL DOING THAT SHIT!!”

Sam chortled loudly and shouted, “YEAH, THEY DO!”

The room roared with laughter and agreement, but Dean didn’t care. In fact, Dean didn’t even bother to turn to look at them, seeing as Cas was amused by their brothers’ obnoxiousness. He just flipped the fuckers off and leaned in to kiss Cas.

Lightly. Softly. Every time, even after all this time, it was like the first kiss all over again. Sure, there was gray in both their hair now, more wrinkles at the corners of their eyes and mouths, but they were from smiling more than sadness. He grinned against Cas’s mouth, feeling him do the same thing, and then they kissed a bit deeper, ignoring the hoots of approval around them.

Then there was some irritatingly loud hint of throat clearing from Sam, annoying Dean, who turned from his man’s mouth with a vicious, “What?!”

Sam made some suggestive eyebrow waggles and a few micro-bitchfaces to get his point across, and Dean went, “Oh! Oh yeah.”

While he stepped away from a suspicious Cas, Sam turned and, using his height and giant hands, tried to silence the crowd down with moderate success.

It didn’t stop Dean from dropping to his knees right there in the living room of the currently crowded brownstone and, grasping Cas’s hand, he asked, “I have waited literally _decades_ to ask this.” He grinned up at the shocked Cas as he produced a small black velvet box with a platinum ring with an inset sapphire.

“Cas, will you marry me?”

Cas hadn’t cried much in the years since he had reconnected with Dean, but he did now. Nodding tearfully, he cried as Dean slipped on the ring and kissed his hand and (helping his aged now-fiancé up) kissed him again, tucking himself into Dean’s side to hide his face.

Dean held him as his love trembled, kissing his head as Cas wept. “It’s okay, Cas. I got ya. I got ya.”

From behind them, Dean heard Charlie Bradbury, his assistant and third best friend (no one was replacing Sam or Cas), muttered, “It’s about time.”

He would smack her for that later. Now, he had to kiss his fiancé until they were both stupid.

~*~*~*~*~*~

It was August 15th, and they were standing in front of Minister Missouri Mosely.

The garden of Cas’s red brick Federalist house in Tribeca was primped for the occasion, the flowers a mix of daisies (for Amelia) and blue star aster (for Balthazar). They had fifty people in attendance, from people they had helped (Charlie being one), to people they couldn’t live without (Sam and his family of four; Bobby and Ellen; Ava and her brood; Michael and his partner, Luke). There was also a large number of teenagers who looked much tearier eyed and engaged in the proceedings than most of the adults.

After all, it was their garden the wedding was being held in.

When he was ready, Cas had moved into the brownstone with Dean, but he hadn’t wanted to give up the red brick house. Not only was it worth a lot, but there was a sentimental value. His pharmaceutical company had long been sold to a larger pharm corporation, and Cas helped Dean organize and command the Red-Ribbon Brigade, with even Sam working there as their lawyer. It had become one of the larger charities for AIDS support, but they wanted to do more.

Long discussions between them led to this conclusion: they wanted to save people. Help them. The family business.

So they had turned Cas’s old home into a halfway house for queer teens who had been kicked out or disowned by their families, and named it Medios, after Balthazar.

Medios was a place to stay until the teens were able to get back on their feet. Dean had given control of the place to a shocked Ava, but it had been a good idea. Ava was a fierce mother hen, and with Uriel and Raphael helping her over the last 20 years, the building had changed and become something welcoming and new instead of formal and stuffy. They had hundreds of teens seeking help had walked in and out of the building.

Charlie had been one of their first tenants, her genius being recognized by Ava and eventually Dean. Thanks to the various scholarships and grants Dean and Cas had pulled together, Charlie had been able to escape the streets, grow up in a welcoming atmosphere, and benefit from those scholarships to get a degree in Business. She ran all the online events and programs, found kids on social media who needed a place to go, and basically was the backbone to the Red-Ribbon Brigade.

Sadly, Charlie had not been their last tenant, but the world was changing. It was finally changing again, with revolutionary movement not seen since the Stonewall Riots. The gay movement was making enough waves, gaining enough power to be heard.

Balthazar would have loved it. The zeitgeist was thrilling.

And Dean was grateful for the newest social shift, because now he was here, with Sam at his side under a canopy with Gabriel standing next to Cas.  Perhaps it might have looked odd to see a two men in their fifties in tuxedos standing in front of an arch festooned with giant paper flowers in a rainbow pattern, but that’s what happened when Dean let Charlie plan some of the details when he wasn’t looking.

Cas had been too busy with invitations and other arrangements to catch it either, but they both figured it was fine. Besides, the kids liked it.

When it was time to exchange rings, Dean got emotional when Cas put on his simple platinum ring. He had waited so long for this, for the world to recognize his union with Cas. When he slipped on Cas’s ring, Cas grinned, thrilled with the matching platinum ring to his engagement ring.

Those there were not surprised that, when Minister Mosley said, “You may kiss your husband,” the kiss was far from chaste, and really almost this side of raunchy, Cas wrapping his arms around Dean’s neck, while Dean pulled him in close.

Twenty-seven years had not dulled their attraction to each other, even with the matching gray hair and Dean’s small pie-and-hamburger-induced paunch.

All the Supreme Court ruling had done was allow them to announce to the world they were it for each other in the sight of God and all that. Not that anyone watching couldn’t tell.

When they broke away from each and walked down the aisle, everyone laughed as the happy couple was pelted with condoms and tiny lube packets, as well as rice, leaving Dean to grin and swear, while Cas just snickered.

(Dean pocketed the lube, at least. It _could_ come in handy in a minute, if he could convince Cas to hide in the storeroom and play hide the sausage. IF he could. Cas was still occasionally a prude.)

While the happy couple was taking photos, the teens went into action to tear down the ceremony set up and put up the reception. It was basically moving chairs and setting up tables. The main table was set up at the top, and the banquet presented at the side. The cake was three tiers of chocolate and cherry (Dean’s fault), with two handsome fellows on top, and “Mr and Mr” piped into the white fondant side in blue frosting, and decorated with sugar aster cascading down the edges and crowned with sugar daisies.

They had decided that since it was mostly family, the meal was going to be simple and served buffet style: BBQ ribs and chicken; five types of salad to keep everyone happy; hummus, falafels, and baba ghanoush for the vegetarians; biscuits and five kinds of pie by the Roadhouse; and giant platter of fresh fruit that the kids in Medios had spent the morning preparing.

Bobby was getting up there in age, but he was still cantankerous. He had been there for Sam’s marriage to Sarah nearly twenty years earlier, and he said he was damned if he was going to miss Dean’s.

“Nuthan’ wrong wit mah custard,” he had groused from his wheelchair, glaring at his adopted boys. Dean and Sam had exchanged looks and let it slide. The man was in his late 80s. Best to humor him.

 Bobby sat with Ellen, already in her 70s but still sharp as a knife, and they chitchatted while watching the young ones run around and prep things.

Dean hadn’t even known that Bobby _knew_ Ellen that well. He should have guessed pie that good was going to have a reputation with cops, especially one with a sweet tooth like Bobby.

As people settled down, food was eaten, and, as the happy buzz set in, Dean leaned over and pecked his _husband’s_ cheek before grinning and demanding a mic.

He tapped his water glass a few times, trying to get everyone’s attention, and when that didn’t work, he growled into the microphone, “Settle down, you savages.”

Semi-drunken insults were launched back at him, and he chuckled at the room. “I want to thank you all for coming today. It’s been a long, long wait for me to be able to _publicly_ declare my love for this man.”

He reached over and grabbed Cas’s hand, giving it a squeeze.

“It was 1987.” He glared around the room. “Yeah, I know, a lot of you weren’t even born yet. Shut up.”

Amid chuckles, he quirked a small smile. “I met him at an AIDS benefit held by Elizabeth Taylor. Which seems weird now since some of you don’t really know who she is anymore, and a lot more of you don’t even know how bad AIDS really was, except that it’s a scary disease.”

He paused, reflecting on all the people he had lost. Cas squeezed his hand in support, and he coughed. “But AIDS was more than that. There was a time when the fear of AIDS stopped you from touching strangers, from welcoming people into your home. The fear turned into hatred for homosexuals, especially that portion of the population that was promiscuous, and the worst thing was…”

He paused again, releasing Cas’s hand to wipe at his face. “The worst thing was, so many of our family and friends were taken by the disease before we even _knew_ there _was_ a disease to be aware of.”

He slipped his hand back into Cas’s, who grasped it while looking up at him encouragingly.

“You young ones don’t realize that there was a time we didn’t _know_ how you could catch it, we didn’t _know_ the symptoms. We just knew it seemed to target the gay male population harder than any other, and, for that, we were hated even more.”

Cas started gripping his arm with his other hand as well for support. “More of us died because of ignorance and fear, on top of the disease just ripping through our ranks. They called that shit the ‘gay cancer’ and the 'gay plague' and it worked against us in the media. Supposed Christians said we deserved it for going against god’s will. What kind of sick god is that? That hates you when you’re already down?”

For a moment, Dean flashed back, remembering all the coffins he had seen set in the ground, all the names he recognized in the Memorial Quilt, all the people dead long before they had really learned how to live.

He stared at the young ones, willing them to understand. “We only knew it could be transmitted through sex and blood. And we remained afraid to touch each other, because what if someone had a cut on their hand? What if their blood got on you?”

Remembering Cas’s own abrupt self-introduction, how he immediately promised he was healthy, Dean took a deep shuddering breath. “It was terrifying. The whole decade was steeped in terror.”

He looked around at the tables and realized he had made the moment too solemn and he gave them a small grin. “I blame Ronald Reagan. I hear he was the devil.”

He waited until the awkward laughter died, and then looked to Cas, who was tearing up himself. “Cas and I met under those circumstances, while his own wife was dying of the disease thanks to a blood transfusion. We had our rough patches but…” Dean squeeze Cas’s hand. “…we managed to come back to each other. And like that, we've somehow managed twenty-seven years of living quietly, y'know...living the way I imagine my friend Balthazar and Cas’s dear Amelia would have wanted us to.”

Dean licked his lips and braced himself, because this was a confession moment. “But we definitely had our hard times, and at one point I thought we were over, but we came out of it together stronger, _better_. We were lucky like that. And now, finally, we have lived long enough that we can get married. WE can openly love each other without consequence.”

He smiled at his brother and his family, Sarah, their eldest 10-year old Mary, and 5-year old Robert; at Bobby and a crying Ellen; Ava sitting with her twins and their families a grandchild on her knee; at his dear friend Michael white knuckled as he gripped Luke’s hand; at Charlie and her partner Dorothy; and the rough around the edges runaways that had become family: Krissy, Lucas, Max, Aidan, Jake, Lily, and Josephine.

He hadn’t realized that he had started crying, until Cas jumped up and pulled him into his arms, hugging and kissing Dean all over his face, whispering it was okay, even as he wept himself. Sniffling, Dean swiped at his face. “I just want to thank you all for being with us. It’s been a long ride to get here, and we both know how blessed we’ve been.”

He kissed the hand Cas was wearing his ring on, and grinned through his tears. “And I plan to be for the rest of my life. I love you, Cas. Always, and forever.”


End file.
